The Dark Tale of the Adventures of Arathamus
by The Mute Bard
Summary: Based on actual campaign Events. These are the chronicles of Arathamus and his acomplices. An evil bard and a team of equally evil villians go adventuring. Rated T for language, adult content, violence, and overall evilness!
1. Chapter 1

It was a day like any other, that fateful day. A poor, middle-aged gnome was out for a stroll in the hills just north of his home village. He had been out looking for mushrooms, berries and any good herbs he might happen across. It wasn't so much that he was starving, he was simply tired of the same old gruel at the house; he needed some flavor, some nice spice to kick things up a notch. Anyway, it was a lovely day, with but a few wispy clouds floating high above, slowly gliding along. Gerpan, for that was his name (a fine Gnomish name it was too!), was enjoying himself and decided to wander further north than he usually did, up higher into the mountains where the trees were thinner and the air seemed fresher.

Suddenly, his refined sniffer happened to catch a whiff of something which one should not smell up in this region, that of smoke. As he snorted a few quick breaths in and looked about, he also detected a slight rank odor in the distance, mingling in with the smoke like a drop of ink in a river. Scurrying along in the sort of half run, half waddle that typified a gnome in a hurry, he followed his perceptive proboscis until he came upon what was, especially to a peaceful gnome, a horrifying scene. There was an overturned wagon of the size commonly used by the human traders who sometimes visited his village, and large puddles of blood and bits of hair where horses had previously been haltered. But perhaps what was the most assailant upon his nose and eyes was the stench of sight of what appeared to be nearly a dozen bugbear bodies and four human corpses.

The bugbears seldom bothered gnomes, but did have a reputation for ambushing caravans and traders. These particular bugbears however, seemed to have only partially succeeded in their attack. While the lone merchant had been killed, he had apparently also hired some bodyguards. Unfortunately, they too were dead. They had however, somehow managed to slay the bugbears in a most brutal fashion, Gerpan noted, as he studied the various disemboweled, decapitated and de-limbed bugbears. Most notable was the one who had been chopped completely in half at the waist, and the one whose head had been cleaved in twain all the way from the crown to the mouth, a broken sword blade still lodged in its final, gruesome, resting place. The human guards, two men who could almost have been twins in life, and a woman, seemed to have died from club blows and massive blunt force trauma received during the encounter.

Doing his best to ignore the surrounding carnage, Gerpan waddled over to the wagon and began rummaging through it, hoping to find any valuables. Unfortunately, this wagon had been carrying flour, meal, and spices to trade, and most of them had been damaged in the attack. Bugbears weren't particularly careful in attacks, and anyway, they would probably have preferred to eat the humans than the plant based food and spices in the wagon. Knowing that no bugbear would have any decent loot on him, Gerpan steeled himself and went to search the human bodies before leaving this gruesome scene. He was sadly disappointed with his findings however. The merchant proved to have a small purse with gold and some various silver pieces in it, so, Gerpan thought, it wasn't a total bust here. He then went on to inspect the bodies of what had to have been mercenary guards, as he could tell from their armor and weapons. These humans appeared to be poor mercenaries and from the two dark haired men he found merely a few rings, and those were of brass and copper, with cheap and low valued stones set in them. As he approached the dusty haired woman, he detected a slight movement. Cautiously, he rolled the body over and, lo and behold, there was an infant clutched tightly in her left arm, and a very nice bastard sword in her right. The child was still alive, and appeared to be calm, but hungry and slightly disoriented. Taking a cursory glance at the woman, Gerpan sighed and scooped up the bundle. Despite the hassle it would cause, his upbringing would not allow him to leave a baby alone in the wilderness. Taking a longer look at the mother, he noticed a light chain with a lute pendant around her neck. He decided that perhaps the child could use a memento of its past. Hanging it around the infant's neck, it was almost as long as the child was tall, and the child was fully half as large as poor Gerpan. Gerpan also attempted to take the mother's bastard sword, but as it was taller than he was, and he was almost encumbered with the child, he was forced to leave the resplendent blade behind, certain to meet other looters or to decay in the elements as time wore on. The gnome waddled slowly back to his village that day, with a human child, some extra cash, some almost worthless rings, and a story that would perhaps intrigue his fellows at the local pub for some time to come. That night, as he confronted his wife with his hapless burden, she asked him one question alone.

"What should we name him?" she pondered.

"I really hadn't thought about it. What do you think? Eh little guy?" he quizzically nuzzled the baby.

For the first time since he found the child, the infant opened his mouth and made a strange sound. "Ara awwaaa ara ara."

Laughing out loud, Gerpan's wife spoke up, "that'll work nicely. We'll call him Ara, but that's too short perhaps. Let's make it something fancy. How about Arathamus? That's a fine name!" she said. Spying the lute pendent around the child's neck, she offered these words. "Yes, we'll call him Arathamus. Perhaps someday he'll grow up to be someone great: perhaps a bard of renown, someone who will bring honor upon our hovel."

If she only knew what the future held, she may not have been so hopeful. But not all are gifted with future sight, and for now, she was happy. Gerpan was happy, and somewhere deep within the infant's mind, perhaps he was happy. And why should they have not been? The darkest villain who ever lived may surely have had a mother who loved him, and Kings who decided the fate on nations and bore the weight of responsibility for thousands of lives once had a family who cared. Even the poorest, most disease ridden beggar lying in the gutter, drunk on cheap ale may once have had someone who held them dear. So, indeed, why not grant the same to Arathamus?

The years would come and go as surely and as seemingly quick as the ebb and flow of the tides for this family. Arathamus grow into a strong, playful young human child with green eyes that flashed a laugh and dusty brown hair that hung playfully over his eyes. By the age of twelve, he had already reached a height twice that of the gnomes in his village, but even despite from the pranks he commonly played upon them, he was generally liked and accepted among them. Taking the suggestions of his adopted mother, he pursued a career as a bard, and by the age of seventeen, he was a regular performer not only at the local tavern, but among the inns and taverns of the surrounding villages and occasionally even the nearby dwarven port city. Yes indeed, all was going well for Arathamus. That is, all was going well until that fateful day…

A/N: Oooh. Foreshadowing! Don't you love it? Find out what the fateful events are in the next chapter.


	2. Chapter 2

It was an evening much like any other. The sun was sinking slowly over the harbor, bathing the dock district in a golden glow. The dwarven dock workers had just finished for the day, and had taken solace in the many taverns and pubs that bordered their center of work. Ah, there's nothing like a cold pint of mead after a long, hard day's work. A gnomish trading caravan was also in town this particular evening, and so the taverns were even busier than normal, serving out the bittersweet brew made from fermented honey and sundry spices.

Behind one tavern, a tall, but very human leaned casually against the wall as he idly tuned a few strings on his lute. It was nearing time for him to make his entrance and perform for this tavern. He had been offered a moderate sum for this performance, and he hoped that the dockworkers would feel generous after a few pints and grace his music with some silver as a reward. Just another day in the life of an itinerant teenage bard, nothing special, but it was still a fine day. Arathamus enjoyed his profession, and he particularly enjoyed the perks. Despite his age of seventeen, free drinks for entertainers were the standard in this port city, and indeed throughout the entire dwarven kingdom. Heck, after enough of them, even the dwarven ladies looked pretty fine to him. At least, he thought they were ladies… It was always hard to tell, what with the beards and all. Arathamus sighed heavily to himself before kicking open the kitchen door and entering the tavern from the servant entrance.

Arathamus opened up with a lively song touting the glories of sailing the high seas, and followed it up with a song about tossing drunken sailors in the brig of a ship until they sobered up. Really juvenile stuff, but the dwarves ate it right up. The dwarves didn't' mind working on the docks and loading ships, but they much preferred to leave the sailing to humans and the occasional sea-faring elves. The night wore on and dwarves and gnomes and humans flowed in and out the doors of the tavern like the wind through the trees. Arathamus filled the salt air with tales of love and danger, weaving melodies through the tavern and blending some slight magic in that seemed to make his tip jar continue clanking with the addition of coins of various worth. He sowed unto the salt air lyrics to make it even saltier, and bawdy limericks set to melody that would make a sailor's face turn red and a monk hang his head in shame. Arathamus played and sang long into the night, and took full advantage of the free drinks. By close to midnight, there was a pile of empty mugs tossed wantonly next to the stage, and Arathamus felt as though he was playing better than he had ever done before. Then suddenly, it happened, the one thing that made his blood boil and turned his vision red. Over the din of the crowd, and cutting straight a thoroughly thrashing lute solo came a lone, high pitched voice.

"YOU SUCK!!"

Arathamus kept playing, using every fiber of his being to attempt to concentrate on the melody.

"GET OFF THE STAGE!!"

He now starting plucking a contrapuntal bass line on the lute's lower strings, trying to use the added need for concentration to drown out the heckler. He hated hecklers. He hated them with a venom that would melt mithril. He vowed to himself not to get riled from some drunken gnomish heckling. He was better than that.

"GOOD THING YOUR MOTHER'S DEAD. IF SHE COULD HEAR YOU NOW, SHE'D DIE ASHAMED!" the taunting continued. Now Arathamus could stand it no longer. He stuck fully diminished chord on his loot and threw up over his back to hang by the rope he used as a strap.

"WHO SAID THAT? WHO THE FUCK SAID THAT? WHICH ONE OF YOU SLIMY LITTLE SHIT EATING OGRE-LOVING COCKSUCKERS JUST SIGNED HIS OWN DEATH WARRANT?" he roared, using what little bardic magic he knew to amplify his voice into a boom that filled the entire room. The silence that fell upon the bar was such that it made a cone of silence spell seem like a thunderclap. The dwarves and gnomes parted ways like grass behind the flight of an arrow, leading straight to one very tipsy gnome.

Arathamus rushed forward and seized the gnome by the shoulders and held him out at arms length. The futile struggles of the gnome went un-notices to the alcohol fueled raging bard. Arathamus pivoted toward the sole window of the tavern and grinned a devilish grin. His green eyes flashed fire as he seemed truly gleeful at the mere though of what he was about to do. Releasing the gnome, he brought his right foot up on a straight line and punted the gnome directly toward the window. The crowd cheered briefly as the gnome made impressive air time, but the cheers melted almost as quickly as they started. In his drunken rage, Arathamus had miscalculated the distance to the window, and instead of punting the gnome out the window with only minor cuts and bruises, the bar echoed with the hollow sounding smack of the gnomish head colliding with the window sill and the audible crack of his neck reverberated throughout the room. Silence fell upon the tavern as the magnitude of what had just transpired slowly sunk in to the beer dulled senses of the patrons.

"OH MY GOD, HE KILLED KEHVREY." One gnome shouted.

"YOU BASTARD!" barked another.

"LET'S GET HIM!" screamed another particularly drunken gnome. This being said, he leapt into what rapidly became a chaotic fray. Reports would vary later, but a consensus could probably agree that anywhere from five to eight gnomish traders would try attacking the bard in retribution, and medical records would later report that as many as fifteen gnomes suffered punting related injuries. Dwarven guards were called in from the watchmen, and it ended up taking several of them to restrain Arathamus. The damage to the bar was extremely severe, and the death toll of gnomes ended up resting at seven, including the first failed punting victim.

The appointed defense attorney tried to lessen the public reaction, mentioning that with the number of gnomes who had been punted; it was truly a small number of deaths in comparison. This however, did not help Arathamus' case very well. Prior to this incident, Arathamus had been on his way to becoming a local celebrity, and his trial turned into a media frenzy. Reports of the bard's gnome-punting spree traveled far and wide throughout the kingdom. While bar fights were not uncommon at all, Arathamus' unique method of fighting the small opponents drew a great deal of attention. In the end, the first murder charge, that of the original punted gnome, was reduced to gnome-slaughter charges on the grounds that he was very drunk at the time, and he was also provoked. The other six deaths were ruled self defense, a ruling that incited tremendous outrage among the families of the fallen.

Arathamus was offered two choices by the dwarven judge who heard his case. First, he could serve ten years in prison doing hard labor, slaving away in the iron mines deep within the mountains inland of the kingdom, or he could suffer banishment from the entire dwarven kingdom, and forced exile to the orcish continent. He would not be allowed back into the kingdom on pain of death. After deeply contemplating these choices for all of two seconds, Arathamus chose banishment and exile. Thus, only two weeks after his eighteenth birthday, he found himself sailing on a human trading ship heading for the orcish kingdom. He had few earthly possessions to his name, and he was heading toward a land that was not only fairly unfriendly to most everyone else, but one of the most chaotic and lawless lands around. A continent filled with orcs, any of which would probably be stronger than him, and that was in the civilized areas. Dark legends of ogres, giants, dragons, trolls, and other frightening creatures abounded. Arathamus thought to himself, "I don't think I've ever been more exited in my life!" Rather than fearing a continent full of dangers, he viewed it as a continent full of people to exploit.

On the third day of the voyage, he was wondering around the deck, trying to shake himself of the swirling feeling in his head. He had never been on a ship before, and found it quite nauseating. After leaning over the starboard railing to feed the fishes his lunch secondhand, he straightened up and nearly bumped into the first mate. The first mate was a giant of a man, standing around six feet six inches tall, a full five inches taller than Arathamus. One would think a man of his height and barrel chested figure would have nothing to fear, however, right now, the mate was peering through a spyglass and showed great worry on his face.

"What's got your knickers in a twist?" Arathamus queried, trying to sound less seasick than he truly was.

"I think it's a pirate ship." The first mate replied.

"Big deal, Arathamus retorted, you guys surely aren't paying that mage of yours for nothing, I'm sure. Anything happens, he'll take care of it." Arathamus tried to quip glibly. His bluff didn't work.

"Not if it's the Shadow Hawk." the first mate replied. "That ship is like alchemist's fire; it's deadly, and it can't be stopped. They kill the crew of any ship they attack, every one of them. And then they leave the passenger's alive." The first mate shuddered.

"Well, if they leave the passengers alive, I guess I don't have anything to worry about then, right? Haha!" Arathamus laughed. "You however, would probably be royally screwed."

The first mate turned to Arathamus and fixed a stare upon him that would make a lesser man faint. Arathamus was not a lesser man, he merely soiled himself. The mate's parting words echoed through his head for the remainder of the voyage. "Tell me, do you know how to sail this ship? Could you do it all by yourself, seeing as you are the only passenger here? Believe me, there are worse things in this life than being run through with a pirate's rapier."

Luckily for both Arathamus and the crew of the ship, whatever pirate ship the mate may have seen never caught up to the vessel, and they arrived without incident several days later on a small orcish port city.

Taking deep breath of the foul air, Arathamus coughed violently and then straightened up. He gathered up his few belonging and stepped boldly off of the gangplank, and promptly fell into the murky brine below. Finding a ladder used for debarking off of small rowboats, he climbed up back onto the pier and shook himself off. With murky, smelly water still dripping from his hair, he sallied forth into the small city, and almost immediately slipped and fell in a large pile of horse manure. Enduring various other sundry humiliations and painful pratfalls, Arathamus found himself that evening bedding down in a stable where he had snuck in after the stable hand had left for the night. As he curled up on a pile of only moderately soiled hay, a lone tear ran down his cheek as he closed his green eyes and passed out into the sleep of the depressed.


	3. Chapter 3

We last left our hero covered in offal and sleeping amongst the horses in an orcish barn. The best thing about this deplorable situation is this: it can't get much worse. Of course, for our hapless bard, it did. Discovered in the barn the next morning, he was beaten, rather mildly for an orc, but it still hurt. After telling his story to a disinterested stable hand, he was given directions to the nearest public bath house. He still had some gold, but it had been vastly depleted during his journey, as the merchants who had been hired to transport him to the orcish kingdom had informed him (once they had launched) that the fee they were being paid by the dwarven kingdom only covered his transportation, not his food.

After acquiring a fresh change of clothing, very loose fitting as they were made for orcs, and a hot bath, he spent some of his last copper on some bread and a flagon of orcish mead.

"Damn, they may look like shit, and smell worse, but they make some damn good mead!" He muttered under his breath as he took a massive swig of the brew. "Oops, did I say that out loud?"

After a brief beating, Arathamus found himself dusting himself off outside the tavern and setting foot once again to find some sort of livelihood. He spent the better part of the day wandering deeper and deeper into the city, until he came to what may have been the finest looking tavern he had ever seen in his life. He walked in, nodded at the bartender, and set himself up in a far corner and asked the serving wench for their weakest ale, he wanted no repeats of a previous bardic fiasco. After a few tentative sips, he brought out his lute, which had miraculously survived relatively unscathed throughout his trials. He played the lute in that corner, and made enough tips to spend the night in a room. After that night, he returned to the same corner and played the lute every day, making enough for food and lodging, and slowly accumulating more. This was honest work, but it was slow going. However, Arathamus had given up on his hopes and dreams; he played lethargically and drank enough ale to dull his senses, but not enough to inspire any drunken rages. This pattern continued for the following three months, with one day blending into the next. This could have lasted his entire life, if it had not been for a chance encounter with a drow one rainy night. The incident was perhaps the strangest event in Arathamus' life to this point.

The drow was a cloaked figure who walked through the door that night. He wore a cowl on his head, completely hiding his features. This was not completely unusual, but Arathamus quickly took note when the figure made a beeline straight for him. Customers never disturbed the drunken waste of a bard; they just would occasionally send a small coin flying in his direction. The figure sat down at the small table directly across from Arathamus and began to speak in a soft voice.

"You're pathetic, you know that right?" it asked in a voice dripping with contempt.

"Leave me alone, I don't want any trouble." Arathamus replied sulkily.

"Pathetic, not wanting trouble, where's the fun in that?" the figure needled.

"True, it's no fun, but I don't have many options, now leave me be."

"Why not make something of yourself, do something better for your life?" the figure questioned probingly.

"What's it to you? Why do you care?"

"Normally I wouldn't, but circumstances are arising, and I find myself having a need for an outsider such as yourself. Perhaps I can offer you a bargain that would be mutually beneficial." The drow replied, his head leaning forward in a conspirator whisper, the finely chiseled angles of his dark face slowly coming into focus.

"What do you have to offer me?" Arathamus queried, growing slightly intrigued despite numerous warning bells tolling in the back of his mind.

"This." The drow replied as he tossed his head back, removing the cowl with a fluid grace.

Before Arathamus realized what was happening, his trusty lute was in the hands of the drow. The sounds issuing forth from the instrument were truly wondrous. Arathamus knew he had never heard such melodies, or seen anyone play with such grace. The very air of the room began to change and fairly glitter. Suddenly, some orcs in a distant corner started laughing and a large orcish female began dancing on a table. A surly looking guard who had been nursing a massive stein of ale in a back corner bellowed out an order for a round of drinks for the entire bar, tossing a fat purse toward the incredulous tavern wench.

"You truly are a master!" Arathamus exclaimed in a reverent whisper.

"I know." the drow replied craftily as he handed the lute back to Arathamus.

"What must I do? Who do I have to kill to learn how to do that?" Arathamus fairly begged.

"Exactly what I tell you to, and no one right now." The drow chuckled. "You will be my eyes and ears in this city, and I will train you in the ways of the true bards, I have been observing you for the past two weeks, always under a different disguise. You have potential, but it must be nourished. With my help, you will become a great bard, and perhaps even someone capable of the rare art of beguiling. But my assistance will not come cheap, you will be my servant as long as the apprenticeship lasts. And should I ever call in a favor, I expect your full compliance."

"It seems like reasonable set of demands. Ok, I'm in." Arathamus stretched forth his hand to seal the deal with a handshake."

The drow looked at the grimy hand with disgust and stood up, replacing the cowl upon his head. He mutter a few syllables in a strange tongue and waved his left hand slightly about in a counterclockwise motion. The patrons and the tavern staff froze for a subtle instance, their eyes faintly clouded up, and then they returned to normal, acting as though a world class performance had never just occurred. The drow walked smoothly out the door and faded into the misty night.

Arathamus scratched his head in amazement and suddenly noticed a scrap of parchment lying under his stein. On it were hastily printed instructions directing him to appear at the courtyard the next morning at seven, and to tell a guard that he had an audience with assistant councilman Amon. Beneath the instructions, was a large set of letters admonishing him in powerful script, "Take a bath!"

Arathamus followed the instructions, and this began his true apprenticeship in the ways of the bard. His training continued for the next two years, and he repaid his tutor by keeping him informed of all the local gossip and happening throughout the town. Arathamus found that as his training progressed, not only did he grow in skills as a mere instrumentalist, he was able to magically amplify his music and bestow whatever mood he desired upon his listeners. As part of his work providing intelligence for the junior councilman, he grew to be able to talk his way into and out of almost any location and situation. By carefully manipulating others with truths, half truths, and outright cunning lies, he grew to become as skilled a beguiler as he was a bard.

One morning when Arathamus went for his weekly meeting with his tutor, he notices a serious expression on Amon's face.

"It is time for you to go." Amon said.

"Go where?" Arathamus replied, puzzled.

"To the continent of humans, or to that of the elves, even return to the dwarven kingdom disguised, you certainly are good enough to succeed there. Anyway, you are of only limited use to me here at this point in time, and there may come a time when I have further need of you, and if your face becomes strange to the locals, that may be a plus in my favor. Remember, at the onset I told you I had need of an outsider. If you were to remain much longer, an outsider you would no longer be. Here, take this lute with you on you're travels." He said while pro-offering a small wooden instrument with delicate inlays. "While it is not vested with any magical imbuement, it should serve you well."

Arathamus thanked him profusely and replied that if he must leave, he would head for the human kingdom. "It'll be nice to be around more of my own kind, especially those of the opposite gender, hehe." He replied lightly. He then took a close inspection of the lute. "Amon, why did you lie to me? This thing bears the distinct tinge of magic in the wood."

"A final test, my pupil, and as to the magic, don't worry about it. It's just a simple tracking spell that will help me find you if ever I have need of your services. Remember, you owe me big time."

"Fair enough." Arathamus replied. He then departed and went directly to the docks to obtain a fare to embark as a passenger on the next trade ship heading for the human kingdom. Rolling seas for two weeks and a good drunk at the end of the voyage surely awaited him. What other adventures were yet to come remained to be seen, but at least now, Arathamus was prepared.


	4. Chapter 4

The ship passage was uneventful, a fact which Arathamus was immensely grateful for. The crew gossiped incessantly about the exploit s of the pirate ship "Shadowhawk". Apparently, the attacks from this ship had dwarfed any other pirate groups, and their reputation for brutality had not diminished at all over the past two years. The Orcish crew of the trading vessel attributed their safety to the god Hextor, as a gift for their devotion. Indeed, it seemed that the fear of pirates had induced a great religious fervor among the merchant crew. All of them wore symbols of the god upon their vestment, a black spiked gauntlet clutching several arrows. This was the first time Arathamus had witnessed people praying to this god every day, both morning and sunrise. They felt sure that it was their prayers and petitions, and the addition of a Hextorian cleric on each vessel, which provided them with safe passage. Arathamus would often watch the ceremonies, but declined to participate, claiming that while he respected Hextor, he had chosen Olidammara as his patron god. It would be most impropper for a member of a separate sect to worship in Hextor's sacred ceremonies.

Upon reaching the shores of the human kingdom, Arathamus immidietly traveled inland, using his accumulated savings to support himself during his three day trek into the heart of the continent. After finding a small town with a lively tavern, he once again resumed his favored role as a bard, and regaled the tavern's clientale with songs and lively dances, jigs, and reels. Through his skill that he had aquired while studying under the drow, as well as some subtle bardic spell influence, he managed to elicict a hearty generoustity from the locals. Knowing that once the spell wore off, suspician would be greatly in his disfavor, he elected to leave town the following day. He spent several months traveling throughout the kingdom, meeting a variety of good, hardworking, honest people along the way. Arathamus took great delight in tricking them out of their gold.

As time progressed, he began to stay in towns longer, and managed to force himself to use his magical skills somewhat less; after all, he still possed enough pure musical skill to be awarded with magnanimous financial gifts. There was a reason beyond prudence that led to this change of tactics. Arathamus had discovered yet another of lifes wonderous pleasures. Women. He used his exceptional beguiler skills, combined with his rougish good looks and bardic charms, to seduce many lovely tavern wenches and indeed, ladies of the town. As time went on, he began to see the women as more than just pleasant diversions after a long night of entertaining the locals. He saw them as a challenge, and began to target married women, and those of ever increasingly higher station. Arathamus even managed to aquire for himself an audience for a local lord, a mere baron, but still nobility. He performed splendidly upon his lute for the lord late into the night, but his true plans were only fullfilled when he played another instrument with the lady of the house early into the morning.

Arathamus was a callous rogue, caring nothing for those he used, merely laughing merrily and wandering off to the next town every few days, leaving dishonored maidens in his wake. This went on for four years, with many a conquest added to his list; and not a few hearty chases as he fled cuckolded husbands who were more perceptive than the next. However, as any gambler will tell you, luck must run out sometime. For Arathamus, this proved true for him shortly before his twenty-fifth birthday. Tiring of the staid nobility and modest mayors wives, he had sought out more earthy companionship. In a small town, about half a days travel from a nearby harbor, Arathamus found himself in the bedroom of a small cottage belonging to the local smith. Arathamus had performed yet another rousing set at the local inn, and now intended to give the comely woman laying before him a more "rousing" private performance as his encore. She had assured him that her husband always worked late into the night, and that he was safe from discovery here. Roughly an hour later, (Arathamus was _much_ to busy to keep precise track of time) he prepared for a truly "climatic" finale. The wench was in the process of crying out to the entire pantheon of gods, starting with the most well know, and working her way toward the more obscure. She stopped as she cried out "Hank!" Arathamus paused and a puzzled expression crossed his face. He was familiar with a great many deities, but had never heard of this particular one.

She cried out again, "By Heironeous, Hank no!" in a shrill piercing scream.

Perceiving danger, Arathamus quickly disentangled himself from his position, and rolled to the side just as a massive hammer came crashing past where his head had been. The hammer whistled through the air and suddenly stopped, a sound akin to that of a cantaloupe being dropped filled the still room. Arathamus had dodged, but his bed-partner had not. The sickening smell of blood and brains and assorted gore wafted up from the warm corpse, as the blacksmith stood still in shocked horror, aghast in disbelief at the crime he had just committed.

Arathamus quickly rolled to where he had abandoned his clothing and gear. Grabbing tiny straight piece of iron, scarcely larger than a needle, he muttered a spell under his breath and watched in satisfaction as the blacksmith froze even more than he had before. Slowly unsheathing his rapier, Arathamus walked up slowly behind the smith. Positioning the blade directly in between two spinal discs, he leaned slowly forward, watching the smith's muscles twitch in agony. Muscles strained in the smith's mouth, but despite the immense pain, the hold person spell kept him from even the slightest of screams. After about ten seconds, the sword pierced through to the other side. At this point, the smith found that he could move again, and began to twitch violently. Arathamus quickly withdrew his blade and stepped back. The blacksmith was paralyzed from the waist down, and was unable to swing his hammer in any arc that even remotely threatened the naked bard. As the blacksmith began to scream in pain mixed with anger and frustration, Arathamus made a shushing gesture with his left hand, and muttered some more arcane phrases under his breath. Now, despite the apparent extreme vocalizations, the cottage remained as quiet as a graveyard.

Arathamus dressed slowly and silently mocked the crippled blacksmith as he gingerly poked around the house and relieved it of any valuables he encountered. After a brief looting session, he walked out the door, taking a lantern with him. The smith looked on dumbfounded, unable to move, and seeping blood. Tears ran down his silent face, his eyes bloodshot with pain and confused rage. Minutes passed by. Suddenly, the door flew open, but nothing was there. Arathamus was having some fun this night, using more spells than he had for a fortnight. The lantern soared into the hut, bursting into flames and igniting the floor and furniture around it. Arathamus casually walked off into the night as the fire burned down the hut, roasting the crippled smith alive. He believed that the locals would find the building the next day and believe it to either be a total accident, or a murder suicide. Upon awakening at the inn the next morning, he was sorely mistaken. It seemed that a local ranger had spied his exit that fateful night, and had managed to rouse a large lynch mob to exact justice upon him. Slipping out the window, Arathamus tumbled out into the street below. As the mob charged at him, he waved his hands in the air and chanted a quick verse. The entire crowd stopped instantly and clutched their collective heads, staggered as if hit by a champion boxer. Several of the weaker men fell to the ground instantly, a look of extreme pain etched upon their faces. Those left unconscious began to totter toward him, all now with death in their eyes. Arathamus roared a taunt and waved a hand once again, arcane verses spewing forth from his lips. The street erupted in a chaotic battle, as horses and riders, orcs and goblins appeared from nowhere and began to do battle with one another. Any casual inspection by a seasoned adventurer would show these to be all phantoms, and totally harmless to flesh, but the mob was suffering from a massive collective headache, and a low intelligence quotient. Arathamus casually eased away from the mob, silently wiggling his fingers and fading from sight, making use of both his silent spell ability and a simple bardic invisibility spell. Once hidden from sight, he used a haste spell to speed his passage to the nearest harbor. He decided that perhaps it would be best if he took a vacation from the human kingdom. There were getting to be too many places that may react with ill will toward his presence. Glibly purchasing passage on the first merchant vessel to the elvish kingdom, he settled down for another nauseating sea journey. No matter how many times he took these trips, he was sure he would never get used to it.

The ship boasted several extremely religious sailors, all who prayed daily to their god Heironeous for safety from pirates. Arathamus found this secretly humorous, that sailors prayed to warring gods for the same protection, but kept his peace. Shortly, after yet another uneventful trip, he landed in the mysterious kingdom of the elves.

Rather than travel the kingdom, Arathamus thought to himself that perhaps a touch of stability would be nice. Therefore, he traveled to a large city and quickly acquired a position as a court musician at for a small noble house. The noble was an elderly elf, with little political power, and not immensely wealthy by royal standards, but nonetheless controlled a small fortune. Arathamus fascinated the noble with his lute playing skills.

"I never knew that one not of the elves could play with such skill." He commented on many occasions.

"I studied under a most unique of teachers." Arathamus would reply, however the identity of his instructor, and his drow heritage remained a secret from the lord.

The lord was a lover of stories and was always eager to hear news from other areas. Arathamus coyly remained silent or uninformative as to his travels, but there were many others who would sojourn at the mansion. Most intriguing of these were the Ti-Gar, a elf like race with distinctly feline characteristics. Covered in a light downy striped fur, and with whisker like facial hair, these being had tamed some of the fiercest predatory cats of the elvish kingdom as pets, and enjoyed a level of one-ness with the earth that many elves were envious of. Many Ti-Gar would stay at the lords manor on their ways to trade or travel elsewhere, as the lord provided them lodging of the highest fashion, and charged only a request for news, lore, and legends of his visitors. Arathamus even met some elvish monks who sometimes traveled with the Ti-Gar, and was quietly amazed as they would demonstrate their impressive unarmed techniques in a flurry of frighteningly destructive-looking kata, merely as entertainment for the lord.

After two years of entertaining the nobleman, Arathamus began to feel that perhaps he was growing soft. He despised weakness almost as much as he loved luxury. While this dichotomy had crafted him into a highly conflicted individual, he felt that it may be necessary to move on. He had lately had dreams of himself as an old bard, babbling incoherently and lazily strumming a battered lute, still at the same manor. That was no life for him. He was Arathamus, "The Traveling Troubadour", "The Player of Tunes that Made the Gods Weep", "The Despoiler of Maidens"! Ok, perhaps he was the only one who thought of him by those titles, but damn it, he didn't want to die here as a worn out old man. The call of adventure beckoned.

Thus, on a pale, moonless night, our hero found himself in a most unlikely of place. Skulking through the hallway, Arathamus neared the treasury of the noble. Amazingly, the door was un-warded by spells, and succumbed to a simple lockpick. Upon entry of this small room, Arathamus found himself surrounded by fabulous gear. Grabbing a small bag he found lying near the door, he began to throw handfuls of coins into it. After about a minute of this, he noticed that the bag was not growing any heavier. By the gods, he had found a bag of holding. With this, he could put a prodigious amount of loot in a small container, and not be burdened down by it. He quickly proceeded to shovel in a full studded leather armor set, made of the highest quality craftsmanship, a buckler of a deep purple hue that seemed to absorb all light, and yet seemed to glisten, and lo and behold, the elven lord's prized rapier. It was a piece of steel with a simply wrought hand guard, which belied the level of craftsmanship imbued into it. Closer inspection showed delicate mithril inlays in the hilt and hand guard. The blade itself fairly shone in the dim starlight. Arathamus knew this to be a blade of great worth, and proceeded to strap it onto his belt, were he had once worn one of much lesser worth.

"My dear Arathamus", a benign voice called out to him from behind. "If you needed money for clothes or new lute strings, you could have just told me. As for that sword, you don't need that. I appreciate the gesture, but I have faith in my guards to keep me safe. There is no need for you to be armed to attempt to protect me."

Arathamus never ceased to be amazed by the daftness of his patron. He laughingly replied to the lord as he casually unsheathed the sword.

"Haha my lord, that may be true; and it is certain that all who live here love you, but you never know when some unsavory assassin may attempt to end your life." As he slowly twisted the blade in the air, admiring the way the light reflected and refracted off of it, he continued. "Indeed my lord, for all you know, someone in your very employ could secretly plot your demise. All it would take is for one swift, keen blade. A simple thrust could end it all for you. Observe!" And with that, he twirled around and stabbed the kindly, elderly elvish lord straight in the chest. The rapier glided through the flesh and bone with startling ease, and blood lubricated its slow retraction from the startled noble's body. The lord's eyes were filled with a deep horror, his face a portrait of confusion. Arathamus brought up a boot to the dying man's chest and kicked him back casually and turned away as the body hit the floor. A quick shake of the blade divested it of all remaining blood, and it fairly sheened as slid into its scabbard.

Arathamus knew that with the murder of an elvish lord on his hands, he would not be able to remain safely in this kingdom, at least not until the search for him was over. He managed to discreetly exit the manor, and was negotiating passage on a human trading vessel bound for the orcish kingdoms by the time the body was found. By the time a searching party was underway for the missing bard, Arathamus was peacefully napping on a coil of ropes aboard the trading vessel. Bound for further adventures yet to be told, he slept the sleep of the innocent. A stray seagull circled above and landed to peck at the blood on the bard's boot. No one noticed. All was well in the word for Arathamus, and the ship speeded swiftly and unharmed toward the orcish kingdom.


	5. Chapter 5

Arathamus was back once again in his old haunts, in the port city where he had spent those two exiting years learning the true powers of the way of the bard. He spent two full, fulfilling weeks exploring his old haunts, annoying near forgotten bartenders, and playing here and there sparingly. It was during one of his random impromptu concerts at a small tavern on the outskirts of town that he met the messenger.

A tall orc, tall even for his kind, dressed in fine armor, but with commoners garb over it singled him out in the bar. Handing Arathamus a small envelope, he turned and briskly walked out of the bar. It was obvious that the messenger was supposed to discreetly deliver the parcel, but failed miserably at surreptitiousness. Arathamus laughed off the incident and muttered a snappy comment about old girlfriends tracking him down. Upon opening the note, he read it quickly and decided that it was time to leave for the night.

The note had read, "It is time that your skills are needed, I'm calling in the debt. Meet me at the cavern tonight at dusk. -- A." Arathamus sighed to himself. He had hoped that his past wouldn't follow him, but he knew that he owed Amon a great debt, and while he really didn't care about honoring debts, perhaps there would be some entertainment to be had from it.

The cavern was immense, torches lined along the walls providing a dim light that wavered across the chamber, black smoke rising and seeping out various cracks in the roof. The acrid smell of burning pitch and wood filled the area. There was a large table in the center of the chamber, on one side was six chairs, and on the other side was a single, ornately carved chair. For then, they were all unoccupied. A drow paced back and forth near a large cooking fire pitched near the far wall of the cavern. He wore a robe of purple with designs of gold and green woven throughout. His unease was almost palpable. As he paces back and forth, a massive orcish woman in full plate armor entered the passageway and the cavern.

"Ah, it's about time you showed up, Thyme." The drow spoke, his voice showing signs of relief. It is good to see the first of the party is here.

Thyme, a powerful cleric of Hextor, merely grunted acknowledgement, and wandered over to the table, taking a seat. She was here because she felt that her god had led her to this meeting place. She did not care for the pleasantries of the drow; she merely wanted to know why she had been summoned.

A distant whistling sound began to emanate from outside. A soft jingling of super light chain mail reverberated like the gentle sound of rain. A human woman of average height, and more than average looks, sauntered merrily into the room.

"Ok, I'm here, who do I have to kill, and where's the shiny stuff?" she asked laughingly.

Chuckling, the drow replied, "Easy Rayne, patience, there will be plenty of killing, and sufficient shiny stuff later, for now, please wait at the table for now. The rest of the group isn't here yet. By the way, how is the rest of the crew of the Shadowhawk doing? Is your captain Tysmodias well?

"Ah, he's dead. Some damned merchant vessel seemed to be transporting several monks on a mission trip. We have a new captain now.

"That is sad to hear, I had spoken with him but two weeks ago. Oh well, the others should be arriving shortly."

"All right, fine." She replied, pulling an apple out of her rucksack. Using a knife to peel and then section it, she began to munch very noisily. The drow wrinkled his nose in disgust, but said nothing. Thyme was busy studying some prayer beads, and pretended not to notice.

Just then, Arathamus walked into the cave. Humming softly, he looked around, nodded slightly to the cleric and the swashbuckler, and then froze when he saw Amon the drow. When he had left this kingdom, Amon was merely an assistant to a junior councilman. Now Amon wore the robes of the senior councilman. This promotion was very surprising to Arathamus. He knew that Amon was a skilled diplomat, but this was impressive for a drow to rise so far in the ranks of an orcish society; doubly so for a male drow from a matriarchal society that generally suppressed its men.

"Ah, I see my formal pupil has returned. Welcome Arathamus, how are you doing?"

Startled by the change in appearance of his former tutor, Arathamus was at a lack of words for the occasion. Still, the query necessitated a reply, so he opted to go with something cryptic, which would not divulge too much information about him to the others who were gathered in the room. "I am. That I am." He replied mysteriously. It would sound like gibberish to those with poor intellect, but those who bothered to consider the statement would realize that he was stating that he was, or that he existed, and that he did not care to elaborate further at the moment. He was rewarded with a somber nod from the cleric, and a soft chuckle from the swashbuckler. At the least, it seemed that he would not be working with morons.

Instead of taking a seat at the table with the two females, Arathamus leaned casually against the wall. After about a minute of silence, he turned to try to brush off what felt like a bug on his shoulder, however nothing was there. Councilor Amon's eyes tracked the room sharply, and rested on a spot halfway between the high ceiling and the floor.

"You can stop hiding now kobold, I see you." He announced to the emptiness.

"Aww, damn it!" Uttered a short, reptilian creature hanging from the ceiling. With a quick flick of the rope he was hanging from, he fell silently to the ground and wound up the rope in a blink of the eye. Arathamus realized with shock that it had not been a bug he had felt on his shoulder, but a tap from this incredibly stealthy kobold rogue as he swung unseen through the air. The kobold skittered over towards the table, but stopped as his delicate ears picked up Arathamus muttering under his breath. "Damn thing looks like a snake that swallowed a small gnome. I wonder if it's puntable?"

The rogue twitched his arm and a short blade erupted from a sheath attached to it. He rushed toward Arathamus, murder flashing in his eyes.

"Zieckel, stop! Stay your blade!" The drow roared. He then admonished the rogue, saying: "You need him." Amon turned to Arathamus and quipped. "And as for you, I thought I taught you to be more civil. It seems your travels abroad have coarsened your tongue. You should take care to remedy that."

Arathamus hung his head and opted to remain silent. The kobold grunted and sauntered back to the table, but otherwise followed suit. The orcish cleric betrayed a slight grin to her face, but otherwise remained stoic. Rayne on the other hand, displayed no amount of tact and proceeded to laugh at great length at the apparent entertainment, going as far as to send an apple core flying in the general direction of the chastised bard. It bounced harmlessly off the wall several feet away, Arathamus having made no move to dodge.

"Ahem, no greetings for me?" came an alto voice from the entrance. A human female, much taller than the previous one, with bright red hair and fair skin stood tapping a foot in the doorway.

"Ah, Astra, always a pleasure to work with you. Please be seated." Amon said, then noticing the massive great bow she carried, he amended, "or stand, if you prefer."

"We are all here now, well, almost. The monk isn't here yet. Damn elves are always late." He muttered, obviously vexed and eager to get on with the briefing.

"We are never late. We arrive exactly when we are needed. That is our way." Uttered a soft but stern voice emitting from directly behind the councilor. Zieckel grinned a toothy kobold grin, for he had heard a door swishing almost silently several seconds before, and anticipated the arrival of the sixth member. The monk stood not exceptionally tall, but unusually broad. Arathamus recognized him as having been a monk who had studied under the Ti-Gar due to the orange pay emblem he wore on his loose fitting vest. He was powerful elf by any measure, with a physique that would make most combat drow envious. His bulky tan figure moved with an amazing grace as he silently made his way from behind the drow to seat himself at the table.

"Indeed Jevin, how right you are. Now then, seeing as we are all here I shall tell you why I have brought you all together. Shall we all be seated?" After some shuffling and a few brief greetings, the motley crew settled down and the briefing began.

"I have a special mission for all of you. Your different areas of expertise should make it a breeze if you work together. First, allow me to fill you in on a little back story. As you may or may not know, recently our king Gustof has been exploring diplomatic relationships that we the council find disturbing. Our forces have been conducting raiding skirmishes and assaults on the other three continents for as long as anyone can remember, while we still manage to achieve trade through some of the less reputable ports overseas. King Gustaf is actually considering peace negotiations in an attempt to close hostilities on as many of the three fronts as possible. Now the council and I are not pleased with this. He maintains that we would be better off trading with the other kingdoms, and he has begun to banter uselessly about wasted lives. He fails to realize the great tactical and financial benefit we get from our raids. The council and I are in agreement. We want him gone. Your mission is to kill him."

The table suddenly shook as Thyme stood up and slammed her gauntleted fist down in a hammer attack upon it. The crash of the fist combined with the rattle of various dishes on the table echoed throughout the cavern. "This is treason! You are attempting to hire us for murder! What do you think I am? An assassin? I'll have you know I am a cleric of the great god Hextor! This is outrageous!" Thyme fairly screeched in indignation. Jevin also seemed disturbed and very contemplative, but held his peace for the time being.

"Relax cleric, I realize that this may seem unorthodox, but there is provision for this decision." Amon gently remarked. Lying through his teeth, he continued on. "In section four of our constitution, subsection twelve, in article seventeen, paragraph forty-two, it clearly states that in the event that the council (by majority vote) finds the king failing to uphold the standards to which he is appointed to uphold, pertinent standards being found in section two and three, articles eighteen and six, respectively of course, and in paragraph thirty-two and five (once again respectively of course) being pursuit to this matter, the elimination of the king through whatever means necessary is entirely allowable, and indeed required in the event that the king is found in violation of section 5, subsection two, article fifteen, paragraph seven, sub-clause three. This is all explained clearly in the companion errata to the constitution as well."

Looking very confused and somewhat cross-eyed for a moment, Thyme finally settled down and muttered softly. "Well, if it's in the law, I might as well do it to the glory of Hextor."

Jevin counted his fingers as if trying to tabulate a large sum with simple math, and his eyes darted back and forth as if reading an unseen book. After some incoherent muttering to himself, he finally opined. "Indeed councilor Amon, the laws are much different where I come from and I am unaware of any such provisions there, but hey, different cultures, different laws. But the law is the law, and I will be pleased to help you enforce them."

"Excellent, are there any other objections? Seeing none, I shall proceed with my briefing. The king is having a banquet tomorrow night here in the castle, it's a small and private affair, and only select council members will be present. You shall kill him in the dining hall, and leave no witnesses to his death. The council will be present when you arrive, but we shall leave through the main door once you show up. The rest is up to you. Once again, I must remind you, there are to be no witnesses, and if you fail, there are clauses which the council will invoke to legitimately deny any involvement in the assassination. You will of course be well compensated for this endeavor, to the tune of thirty thousand gold pieces each. Any questions?"

Arathamus raised his hand, as well as one eyebrow in a quizzical fashion.

"Yes bard, what do you need to know?"

"Does it have to be done cleanly, or are we allowed to make a mess?

"Well asked indeed. In this case, the messier is the better, for it will help to send a message to any others who wish to bring dishonor to our land. Any other questions?"

Arathamus once again raised his hand and called out softly, "Ooh, me me me, pick me!"

"Yes bard?"

"You said no witnesses, that includes anyone we meet on the route?"

"Yes. Are there any other questions. Does anyone else need to know anything?" Amon continued, beginning to show signs of annoyance.

Once again, Arathamus raised his hand. The laughter of Rayne could be heard softly as she attempted to smother herself with a gloved hand.

"Yes, one final question, and this one is the most important! Do we get to keep all the shiny stuff we find or loot?" Arathamus queried, using his favored term for anything of value, ranging from weapons and armor, to jewelry and coins of any value.

"Yes, any shiny stuff you find is yours, as rightly won spoils of war."

"Allright, I likes shiny stuff!" Arathamus and Rayne cried out simultaneously.

"Do I know you?" Rayne asked.

"I certainly hope not." Arathamus replied glibly, remembering his track record for previous encounters with any fair looking human female. He was certain he would have remembered any encounter with her, but if he was wrong, he definitely didn't want her to remember.

After a few more brief and more pertinent questions, the drow dismissed himself and parted ways with the newly formed adventuring party. He had given them a basic map as well as verbal instructions on how to get to the kings private dining hall. After instructing them in the use of the secret passageway into the castle's lower hallways, he felt certain that the mission could be carried out without his further involvement. He had plans to make, and people to see.

The party talked briefly amongst themselves and formulated a basic attack strategy:

Make a beeline toward the dining hall and kill everything in the way.

Kill the king.

Get paid.

Get drunk.

Admittedly, the fourth step was only agreed upon wholeheartedly by Arathamus and Rayne, with a possible assent by Zieckel and Astra, however, Arathamus insisted that it was key to the success of the mission. When asked how he figured, seeing as that that would be after the king was dead and they were paid, he replied, "Because then I'd know I was still alive." Rayne agreed with a hearty laugh.

The party spread out in the cave, and each began to prepare themselves for the future day's toils as best suited themselves. Jevin the monk spread a small blanket on the ground, lit some incense and slipped into meditation. Whether or not this meditation ever grew into sleep was a mystery that none of the others would ever learn. Thyme the cleric performed a few holy ceremonies, and prayed silently to Hextor for powerful spells and victory in battle before finally slipping off into slumber. Zieckel actually got out a small cloth and gave himself a sponge bath in a dark corner before turning around in a circle several times and going to sleep. His snores whispered so softly that one would have had to be within three feet of his body to have even had a hope of detecting them. The archer Astra, who had remained silent for most of this time, managed to not break her pattern, and slipped silently off into distant corner to sleep away the hours. Arathamus preferred a bit more excitement before his slumber, so he played a few brief melodies upon his lute and then got rip-roaringly drunk from a bottle of rum he had been carrying around. Rayne accepted a few swigs herself, but slipped off to a isolated wall to busy herself sharpening her blade: a rapier of such fine craftsmanship that it actually made Arathamus' pale in comparison. The gentle rasp of the whetstone was the last sound Arathamus heard as he drifted into slumber. Indeed, when he awoke the next day, the rasping sound of coarse stone being dragged against sharp steel echoed through his aching head. Rayne had slept a few brief hours, but was already busy re-sharpening her already razor sharp blades before anyone else had awoken. As the evening approached, the party gathered their collective belongings and headed through the secret escape tunnel into the castles lower floors. The excitement was tangible for all of them. They knew that either fabulous wealth and possible fame (or infamy) awaited them as a result of this mission, or a nasty death, either at the hands of zealous guards, or even the orc king himself. The legend was that only the most powerful of warriors were ever allowed to ascend to such rank. The party certainly had their work cut out for them!

A/N. Ok, I was supposed to make this all into 1 chapter, but the following battles are going to take a while to flesh out, they will be up before noon Saturday, that much I can promise. Anyone involved in the campaign is welcome to message me notes for corrections or suggestions for changes. Also, PLEASE COMMENT!!! Writers love comments. They be like crack for us. Seriously, without comments, we shrivel up into empty husks. Just as J.D. Salinger! Nobody wrote him any fan mail, and he hasn't written a story in thirty years! Coming up within the next 48 hours, the parties battles on the path to the orc king, and the final climatic battle itself. After that, I know not. We'll have to see what the DM throws at us Sunday.


	6. Chapter 6

The passage lay before them. It was a long, dark corridor filled with a damp musty smell. The odor of many past orcish patrols lingered like a dinner party guest who just wouldn't take a hint. The party moved forward in the direction of the dining hall, eyes alert for any sign of guards. They made good headways for some time. Then suddenly the sound of added footsteps began to reverberate from down the hall. A squad of ten orcish guards was approaching slowly as they clanked along in their full plate armor. As they approached the party of intruders, the guards cried out.

"Who are you? No one is to be allowed down here without proper escort!" The apparent leader cried out.

As the guards issued their verbal challenge, they didn't notice the tiny kobold vanishing from sight, expertly blending into the shadows. Jevin made a slight saluting gesture that would be difficult to notice as he silently used a monk spell that turned his skin as tough as a rock. The dim lighting served to conceal the change in skin tone. As Arathamus desperately tried to think of some way to fast talk his way out of this, he heard a lithe voice speak up. It was Rayne, the pirate woman from the dread ship Shadowhawk.

"Ha, it's funny you should use that word, "escort". You see, it's ok. I'm a hired escort for one of the council, and these are my friends. We just seemed to have got lost while taking a stroll. Perhaps you could guide us to the banquet hall?"

As convincing as she seemed, the orcish guards remembered their prime directive, no one was allowed down here without proper authorization. These travelers would pay with their lives, regardless of whether or not the female's claims were true. If it turned out that she was telling the truth, the orcs reasoned, no one would mourn the death of a harlot and her companions. Drawing their bastard swords, the guards let out a collective roar and prepared to charge the outnumbered group.

"So much for diplomacy," muttered Astra, "Now it's my turn to do the talking!" So saying, she unlimbered her massive bow and took two paces back. In seconds, there were two arrows stuck through the armor of the nearest orc, still nearly fifteen yards away. A third arrow glanced harmlessly of the orcs shield, his stagger from the first two impacts bringing his kite shield to bear in the nick of time. Thyme, the orc cleric, raised her hands and cried out a few brief syllables, bathing the party in a soft glow of holy protection. The slightest of scuffling feet went undetected as the rogue skittered unseen toward the guards. Arathamus laughed riotously and reached for his lute. Plucking a quick minor chord, he burst into heroic song.

"Axes flash, broadswords swing, Shining armor piercing ring! Horses run with the polished steel, fight those bastards till they yield! Midnight mare and blood red roan, fight to keep this land your own, summon the horn and sound the cry, 'How many of the can we make die?'" He only bothered with one quick verse, knowing that the magic that he imbued into the notes would aid his compatriots for a full minute. He raised his eyes from the strings and looked out upon the battle, trying to observe what was going on.

Jevin had rushed forward and delivered a massive roundhouse kick to a guard, and had it not been for the wall in the way, the guard would have probably fallen. As it was, the guard bounced of the wall with a massive clang, and two dents in his armor, one where he had been kicked, and one where he had collided with the wall. Rayne had rushed forward and unlimbered her rapier in a seamless draw and thrust toward a particularly nasty looking orc. Unfortunately for her, the blade glanced harmlessly off its armor, creating a shower of sparks that filled the air with a metallic odor. The two orcs that had been on either side of her intended victim prepared to flank her. "I'm in a tight spot here guys!" she cried,

Meanwhile, two orcs had rushed toward the ranger, leaving the three with Rayne, and Jevin's sparing partner and one other who was turning toward the monk with an angry glare in his eyes. Astra backed up slightly and was almost even with Arathamus, who had been trying to stay toward the back of the fray. One orc made as if to strike at the archer, but was smashed in the back by a swing from a massive two handed flail. Thyme would not be forgotten. The orc turned and instead swung toward the cleric. With a maniacal glint in her eyes, she purposefully swung her shield arm out, providing a clear target for the incoming sword blow. As the blade connected with her armor, denting it slightly and drawing a thin line of blood from an insignificant scratch, a dark mass of energy formed directly in between them. "May the wrath of Hextor fall upon those who strike me!" she roared as the mass slammed into the surprised guard and nearly knocked him off his feet. Meanwhile, Astra managed to nimbly dodge an attack from the other orc, returning two quick shots and a final glancing shot from her bow in answer.

Not to be forgotten, Zieckel slipped out of the shadows and dealt a cunning stab to the guard's left kidney. The guard opened his mouth with a silent scream and collapsed to the ground.

"Guys, a little help?" Rayne re-iterated as she fenced off several blows from all sides.

"I'm a little busy right now!" called out Jevin, as he deflected a sword slice with his bare arm, and returned the favor with a smashing right hand blow that sent the orc staggering backwards.

"I'm on it!" called out Arathamus. Quickly gripping an unseen reagent from his spell pouch, he began muttering some quick phrases while swinging his hand back and forth, ending with his hands pointing in opposite directions. Instantly, half of the orcs began to attack their compatriots, confused by the spell into mistaking their friend for foes. On of the two orcs who were unaffected rushed toward the archer, attempting to silence her deadly arrows as yet another flight drove into the ones pressing on toward the cleric. Zieckel tried to ambush one of them, but his puny dagger glanced harmlessly off of the resilient plate, as this time he failed to slip the deadly shard in between the plates.

Rayne was being battered by the orcish guards, but remained unhurt. She noticed Jevin shoving the two orcs away from him with a mighty heave. "MOVE!" he roared at Rayne. She barely scurried back fast enough to narrowly avoid a fireball flying from Jevin's palms. His fireball enveloped the five orcs near him and Rayne, but their armor kept them alive. However, their armor became extremely hot and their skin blistered. Audible pops could be heard as blistered formed and burst in matters of seconds. There were now four orcs near the ranger and cleric and bard, and five in close proximity to jevin. Astra drew her bow once again and sent three shafts throw the nearest orc's neck, the green feathers were all that showed from beneath the guards visor. A sickening gurgling sound emitted from the helm as the orc collapsed to the ground. A horrifying scream emitted from another guard as Zieckel successfully hamstrung a guard and proceeded to rapidly stab him in the back with a flurry of gory thrusts. Just as Arathamus thought he'd witnessed the most brutal death imaginable, a massive orgy of sounds erupted from Thyme's direction. Arathamus turned his eyes in time to witness a guard's head flying from his shoulders and fragmenting. The helm clanged weakly off of the wall but the sound of that impact was mild compared with the massive ringing sound of the initial impact of the flail and the cracking of the scull and the squishing of the brains as the components flew to the ground with a large splatter pattern.

"Ok, this ends now!" Arathamus cried out. Waving his hands and uttering a dark phrase, sending a massive headache to the weakened members of the orcish patrol. Only two orcs remained standing, both seeming extremely distraught. Whipping his hands around once more, he targeted the remaining orc closest to him. With yet another obscure series of hand gestures and mutterings he fixed his eyes upon his victim. The guard froze in position, a glazed look enveloping his eyes.

"Command me, master." The guard called out.

Arathamus pointed at the sole remaining standing guard, and uttered, "sic em."

However, just as the orc turned and began to redirect his attacks, Jevin cried out in a loud voice, "Stop!"

Startled, the entire frenzy stilled. The one remaining hostile guard glanced around uneasily.

Jevin continued, saying, "Orc, you have fought valiantly, but you are the last remaining member of your squad. I suggest you stand down." As the orc pondered this, Jevin re-iterated somewhat more forcefully. "Get on your knees and I shall be merciful!"

The guard dropped his weapon and obeyed, looking somewhat sheepish and ashamed as he did so. Jevin approached him slowly, carefully stretching out his right hand palm down. Placing his hand on top of the orc's head, he spoke softly.

"I said I would be merciful, and so I shall. Your death will be brief." So saying, Jevin sent a powerful electric charge directly from his hand into the astonished victim's scull. Blue electric arcs could be seen coursing over the monk's hands and all over the orc's body. The electric current fried the guard brains and created a most comedic display of twitches as he sank lifelessly to the ground.

After Zieckel quickly scampered about, delivering coup de graces all around for the unconscious guards, the group had Arathamus quickly loot their weapons and armor and personal cash, the later of which was quite considerable, into his bag of holding.

"Well, that was certainly most entertaining!" Remarked Rayne as she sheathed her rapier. "What now?"

"Now," Arathamus replied wickedly, "now, we get this guard to guide us to our prey. For the next ten days, he is my total slave! Ah the fun I've had in the past with this spell, it is most entertaining when someone spurns you fiercely and then wakes up ten days later sore in the most odd of places, coupled with memories of things they wish they could forget, ha ha!" He then turned to the guard and spoke. "What is you're name, orc?"

"Kresh" came the instant reply.

"Ok, Kresh, what is you're position here?"

"Corporal, I guard the classified passages of the lower halls against any intruder."

"Ok, great job at that so far by the way. Now, I want you to take us to the King's dining chambers."

"Which one?"

"Damnit, there's more than one?"

"Yes, there's the one for public events, the one for state events, and the private one for small gatherings of just the King and his council."

"That one! Lead on, and take us whatever route has the least patrols."

"Yes sir." The orc replied without question.

About five minutes later, the group found themselves in a large room with armor and weapons lining the walls.

"Ooh, shiny stuff!" Arathamus cried out somewhat louder than necessary as he observed the plethora of highly polished metal objects.

"Not now you stupid bard," barked Thyme, "we need to stay focused on the job at hand."

"Hey, I can't help it, I suffer from A.D.O.S." Arathamus replied with a chuckle.

"A.D.O. what now?" queried the generally silent Astra.

"Attention Deficit Ooh Shiny!" quipped Arathamus.

Astra muttered to herself, "I shouldn't have asked." as Thyme and Jevin groaned in mock pain at the joke, and Rayne and Zieckel shared a chuckle.

Perking his ears, the kobold suddenly grabbed Kresh and put his blade to his throat. "I thought you said this way didn't have many patrols! What's that sound of footsteps coming from beyond those doors?"

"That's not a patrol, it's most likely the last shift coming back to the barracks." replied Kresh calmly.

"Where are the barracks?" asked Rayne.

"You're standing in them." replied Kresh in the same unaffected voice.

"Damnit!" cried Thyme, "I'm getting tired of these delays!"

Just then, as if on cue, the doors at the end of the long room swung open and yet another squad of ten orcish guards entered.

"Screw this, I don't have time for another big fight." muttered Jevin. Rushing in, he raised his right foot and brought it down with a massive stomp. A great fire blast erupted from the stones, with the epicenter at Jevin, and radiating out from him and enveloping the startled guards. Smoke and flames roared briefly, and when the dust settled, Jevin was left standing in the middle of a small crater, with ten crispy orcs lying dead immediately in front of him.

"DAAMN" exclaimed Rayne, "that's pretty neat! Why didn't you do that the first time?"

"Because some pirate lady thought she'd rush in and try to stab someone before I had a chance last time!" retorted Jevin.

"Oh, right. Good show then."

"Hmph."

Arathamus turned to Kresh and growled, we don't have time for more delays, take us to the kings dining hall."

"Of course, it's just a little ways beyond those doors."

"You mean the doors that the guards just came from?"

"Yeah, those doors."

"Are there any more guards that way?"

"Uh, probably around thirty or so."

"Kresh, don't make me hurt you."

"What, I'm telling you the way to the dining hall."

"How about an UNGUARDED way!?"

"Ooooh, you didn't say that, now did you?"

Rayne leaned over to Zieckel and whispered in the kobold's ear, "He may be under the bard's total command, but he's a total jerk." pointing to Kresh. The orc didn't hear a word.

Continuing, the dominated guard elaborated, "Well then, if you'll just follow me, I can take you through the servants' passageway to the kitchen."

They followed Kresh without incident for several minutes, wandering down a long, narrow corridor with poor lighting and damp walls. Kresh held up his hand at the entrance to a small wooden door and whispered softly, "Kitchen, the dining hall is on the other side."

Arathamus motioned for Kresh to go first, and the orc cautiously opened the door into the kitchen. He carefully pivoted his head through the door and looked both ways. Seeing nothing, he swung the door open and walked inside. A hand come from around the corner and flew forcefully into Kresh's face. "Where were you last night?" A feminine voice screeched.

"Not now Jezebel, I'm a little busy." Kresh replied, as the part slowly filed in.

"Oh, don't think you can talk your way out of this one!" Jezebel growled, as lifted a hot pan off of burning coals and eyed Kresh angrily.

"Now listen here woman, I was on duty last night, I don't know what you've heard."

"I have it from good sources that you were with Isabel last night! You tomcatting playboy!" The cook's grey face was fairly red with anger.

"Now isn't the time for this, Jezebel! Now, do you think you can help show my friends here the entrance to the dining hall?"

"They can't go in there now, King Gustav is having eating right now; dessert just got served!" She replied bitingly.

Suddenly Jevin cleared his throat and the cook truly noticed him for the first time. She gazed upon the elf, immensely broad and muscled, scars running across his chest, and the slightest trickle of blood running down his left arm where he had been scratched in the first encounter of the day. "I suggest you show us the way, maam." he warned, as electric arcs began to crackle around his right hand.

As a trickle ran down her leg and pooled on the floor, Jezebel nodded quickly. The faint odor of ammonia melded unsavorily with the smell of roasting meats and baking breads. She motioned for the party to follow her and guided them to a small door not far from the kitchen. Speaking in the most cautious of stage whispers, she told them that the king was directly beyond the door.

A flurry of activity happened as Thyme roared and bashed down the door with her flail, while Arathamus simultaneously slit Jezebel's throat. Kresh groaned in what no one could tell was sadness or relief. Yelling, "FOR HEXTOR!" Thyme hurled a flaming ball of magical fire directly into the center of a large, ornately decorated dining hall. Instantly the three long tables present charred into small piles of ash, taking six noble members of the council with them. Amon and three other council members who obviously had been aware of the murder plot expiditously slipped out the main door and were gone before the smoke cleared. As said smoke cleared, it was obvious that there was only one person left standing in the middle of the room: King Gustav.

Towering well above average height for an orc, and wearing immaculately forged armor, he rose slowly to his feet. The air shimmered around his armor as the heat waves from the blast diffracted the light. Gustav grabbed a massive full shield in his left hand, and from next to his chair he produced a mighty two handed great-axe. Wielding the axe with his right hand, he swung it through the air as though it were no more than a hatchet.

"WHO DARES TO ATTACK ME IN MY OWN CASTLE?" he roared.

The party answered with a chaotic frenzy of attacks as Jevin charged him and delivered a helm denting punch before Gustav had even realized the monk was moving. Astra cleverly wove arrow shots around the battling fray and even managed to slip some shafts between joints in Gustav's armor. Rayne was stabbing with her rapier rapidly at the king, producing much ringing clatter, but no real damage. Zieckel tumbled behind the king and rammed his dagger straight at the posterior of the king, but the blade bounced harmlessly off. Arathamus used his trusty headache inducing spell to attempt to disorient the king and sent in his dominated guard in to aid his comrades. Gustav roared angrily as he burst into a rage, the air fairly shimmering red around him as his muscles strained against his armor and created heat at the rapid creation of muscles. Gustav swung his axe in a mighty circular arc intent on cleaving all his assailants in one fell swoop.

As the massive blade swung, Arathamus was glad he was still too far away to be threatened by such a blow. He saw Rayne barely dodge the great axe blow and actually land a quick stab in the armpit of Gustav's axe arm, but the king's circular motion kept it from providing a fatal penetration of the heart or lungs. Sparks flew as Jevin parried the axe away from him with his bare arm, covered in draconic scales by magical force. The axe clanged off of Kresh's shield, but did no actual physical harm. Kresh, however, was thrown into the wall and collapsed, remaining limp for the duration of the battle. As the blade approached Zieckel, the rogue did an aerial back flip and used his extended range to charge Gustav once more and successfully ram his dagger straight up through the butt-plate of the king's mighty armor. A sickening ripping sound ensued and was rapidly followed by a horrid stench as Gustav's bowels voided through his now widened sphincter. Zieckel was spared most of the splatter thanks to the armor plating still being mostly intact, but knew he would need a very long hot bath after this fight was over.

Gustav roared and raised his great axe directly over his head and brought it straight down in a crushing blow on Thyme. The blow cut straight through the cleric's sturdy breastplate and cleaved into her sternum. The cracking of her bones could be heard over the screeching of the blade cutting through her armor. Finally the blade was jarred free of the armor by a rivet, but the cleric had been seriously injured. She uttered a silent prayer to her patron god Hextor, and threw a silent fireball directly into the king's face as she crumpled to the ground. The resulting blast engulfed the king, and singed Jevin and Rayne as well. Zieckel barely managed to tumble out of the path of the inferno, but was unscathed none the less. The king was less fortunate, and sizzling sounds emitted from Gustav's visor as he crumpled to the ground, limp as a rag doll. The party's mission was accomplished; the king was dead.

After Arathamus cast a quick healing spell to bring Thyme back to consciousness, she managed to heal herself and bandage the rest of the party. When they had come to their senses and began to survey the room, councilor Amon had returned.

"You seem to have done well, congratulations. Here is your reward." So saying, he tossed each of the party a hefty bag of gold coins. As the party members caught the bags and added the wealth to their wallets, Amon walked over and took the king's axe and bracers before turning around and heading back toward the door.

"Hey, you said we could keep all the shiny stuff!" Arathamus called out angrily.

"Heh, you wouldn't deny your old friend a few trophies now would you?" Amon soothingly called back.

"True, allright, fine, take 'em. I don't care."

"Why thank you, your generosity won't go unrewarded, my old pupil. Here, take these badges, as long as you wear them at all times while in the castle, you will be safe from attack and will carry the weight of the council's power with your slightest command." Amon tossed half a dozen badges with the signet of the king on them toward the party. Astra caught them in mid flight and handed them out to the rest of the party. "Thanks" she muttered in a rare incident of verboseness.

Amon headed to the door with his prizes, but paused at the threshold. He turned his head to speak one last time. "You should relax now, explore the city and the castle. Enjoy yourselves, but stick around. I will most likely have another mission for you in about a week. I can assure you, you will find it most profitable."

"Sounds good, see you then!" called out Zieckel gleefully.

It had been a good day for all of them, except for the ones who were dead. It had truly sucked for about nineteen guards, one cook and one king. But for those who were still alive, things looked nice. What adventures the next day would bring, no one knew, but Arathamus did know that he wasn't about to let that worry him. He was rich, and there was supposed to be an excellent restaurant in town. A good motto that he lived by stated: "eat, drink, and be merry!" It said something else too, but he never bothered find out what, the first part was good enough for him.


	7. Chapter 7

As they started to head toward the banquet hall that next night Arathamus started to have an uneasy feeling in his stomach, "_why would my former teacher betray me_" He thought as he and the members of his group went through the hallways. _"I did everything he wanted of me and more, I even dug that damn hole for him! I guess it is now time for the student to become the master."_

Earlier that day…….

Young Arathamus woke up around mid day feeling rested and rejuvenated. He had an unusually late night here at the castle. The night before, after killing the king, he decided to take a small walk and found a very interesting room that was marked with a very crudely made sign. It took him a minute to read the illegible writing but he was finally able to make out the words "Boom-Boom Room. " He was rather curious to why someone would put that kind of sign on the door he decides to enter and see what it might have in store for him.

As He entered the room, there were sounds of music and sights of beauty that he had only dreamed about. He saw before him a room of the most beautiful women in the entire world. Dozens of scantily clad females were rushing about playing on instruments and entertaining the other men, orc soldiers, who were also in the room. After looking around the room and seeing the different races of women that he had never played his "Second Instrument" for; so he decided to go on in. Before entering he mumbled a few words under his breathe before walking further in " _May my words be convincing, may others believe, especially those whom I'm trying to deceive_" While making his way to the nearest ti-gar looking female who was wearing very little clothing, A rather big orc put his hand on the shoulder of young Arathemus. "Who are you and why are you in the Officers Boom-Boom Room?" Normally at this point it would be a good time to start laying on the bullshit and trying to talk his way out of it, but he had another idea in mind. In a calm polite manner, he turns to the orc and replied, "I'm an ambassador from the nation of Terdan. I and my companions are here on important business and I heard that this room in particular is a great place to relax. Either un-hand me now or you will have to answer to council member Amon. " After taking a moment to inspect the young human the orc saw the symbol of the council on his right shoulder and realized that he could get into trouble by kicking him out. "I'm sorry ambassador" said the orc, trying not to stumble over his own tongue, "I did not know that you were a guest of council member Amon. Why don't I have my men here escort you to where the other guests of the council go to have an 'arousing' good time?" As his new escorts stared at the commander for a few seconds, they left their rather voluptuous human companions and stood behind their newest assignment looking rather displeased. While this was happening, Arathamus got a look of confusion on his face. He turned to commander "I was told that this was the place to relax, you mean that I came to the wrong room?"

"Yes sir, you went to the wrong room." The commander turned to his men and yelled an order in orcish. The two men grabbed Arathamus by the arms and took him from the room. As he was being led, by appeared to be by force down the hallway, thoughts of fear and pain ran wild and rampant in his mind. "_Was he joking with me or was he serious? It's hard to tell when people are telling the truth these days. At least there are only two of them. It might not be too difficult if I have to kill them._" As he starts to ponder ways to get rid of his rather foul smelling escorts, they quickly turn to the right and stop in front a rather fancy looking door. "Here is the ambassador's boom boom room" the guards told Arathamus as they knocked on the door and did a quick about face. As they marched off back toward their own entertainment room, the ornate door in front of Arathamus slowly opened. His jaw dropped. If the room he had just came from was magnificent, the only word to describe this room would be heavenly. It was filled with ten of the most beautiful females he had ever seen. There were five humans, two ti-gar, a drow, and two orcs that weren't at all hard on the eyes. Arathamus wasn't quite sure how long he stayed in that room, but when he woke in his own bed the next morning, his 'second instrument' was completely worn out and somewhat chaffed.

Arathamus rose and went to the dining hall to get breakfast, and found that it was lunch time. Indeed, most of his new allies had already eaten, and only Rayne and Zieckel were still at the dining table. After a silent meal, Arathamus inquired as to the location of the other party members. Zieckel offered to help him find them, and together with a cheery Rayne, they set off to find Jevin and Thyme and Astra. They found the party minus Jevin out near the barracks, inspecting some very skillfully worked weapons at the local smithy. It seemed that the local weapon smiths had found a means of folding soft and hard metal over each other several times in a laminated pattern, and then adding tiny serrations to the finished blade that made the weapons extremely sharp as well as very durable. They inquired as to purchasing some, but the smiths told them that there would be a two week wait for them to receive weapons made to their specifications, and also, they could not make such weapons from rapiers. After some though, Arathamus ordered a custom scimitar, as the weapon was of his second favorite design. Rayne laughed and ordered a cutlass, saying that such a blade was like an extension of her arm. Astra was especially intrigued by the laminated composite bows the orcs had, but was told that she two would have to wait, this time for three weeks, before they could craft a bow of the size she was accustomed to. After having placed their orders, the party decided to go exploring the castle.

After inspecting the royal living quarters and the more lavish areas, the group began to wonder what the conditions were like for the prisoners. Calling Kresh to them, Arathamus directed him to give them a tour of the dungeons. Kresh had no choice but to obey.

The tour of the dungeon went as once would expect. It was a large area behind a heavily guarded metal door. The dungeon proper consisted of two levels of cells, all lining the outside of a large rectangular pit. As the party toured the area, there were three prisoners being whipped with massive cat of nine tails wielded by scull-crusher ogres. These ogres were somewhat smaller than normal ogres, but they were also vastly more intelligent and their temper was of an increased level as well. Arathamus could not help but suppress a shudder as he observed the brutes flaying shards of flesh from the hapless orcish prisoners. The group glanced at the many prisoners in the cells. It was a veritable melting pot of the culture from the entire world. Despite Carnassa constantly conducting raids and skirmishes upon the other major three nations, trade flourished within its borders. Thanks to lax regulations of trade and a "don't ask, don't tell" border policy (no, not like that you yaoi freaks), there was perhaps more diversity in Carnassa than any other kingdom. However, these policies also created a sort of safe haven for criminals. The smart criminals kept their noses clean and behaved themselves while in Carnassa. The stupid ones ended up here. After exploring a bit, the party came to a massive door. Embossed in two inch think lettering were the words "death row, no entry".

The party looked at the door. "Let's go in!" said Zieckel. After convincing the brutish guard at the door with their badges of the council, they witnessed the opening of the doors. Two massive scull crusher ogres each grabbed a large wheel with a chain attached to it. Winding the gears in opposing direction, they caused the door to slowly rise. The entire process caused their muscles to bulge, and took close to five minutes to complete. After the group went through the door, the ground shook as the massive door slammed shut. The party was trapped in complete and total darkness, only Zieckel being able to make out some dim shapes up ahead. Suddenly the room was filled with a bright glare as thousands of small sun rods lining the walls burst into light. After their eyes adjusted to the visual assault, they made out several small cells with extremely dangerous looking inhabitants. The inmates began to roar for food, thinking that it was feeding time. However, once the inmates realized that these weren't guards, their comments began to turn to topics of a much baser nature. Heckles of a most improper nature began to emit from them, describing a desire to commit acts upon the party members that would be most unpleasant and painful. One large ogre had some amazingly lurid descriptions of what he would like to do to the kobold, the graphic nature of which caused his scales to shimmer with anger.

"I am a cleric of the mighty god Hextor! I will not tolerate such verbal abuse!" cried out Thyme. Rayne chuckled with sardonic glee as Thyme flexed her considerable bulk and slammed her flail down upon the stone floor. Stone chips flew in all directions, peppering the inmates near the bars. Silence enveloped the room. Astra muttered softly, "exactly why are we here again?"

Arathamus stepped forward and cried out in a loud voice, "Come, O you denizens of Death Row, you hopeless husks of life, I call forth unto you to amuse me. Now, tell me your stories, and perhaps your death may be delayed."

Silence came from the cells as the burly orcs and ogres and various other creatures stood still. Low chuckles began to emit forth from one dark cell deep in the back. Arathamus approached the cell, unable to detect what lay within. When he was but about three feet from the bars, two massive hands with wickedly long and sharp claws shot out from the bars, narrowly missing him. A gravely voice came forth as a scarred snout became visible against the dim light.

"Delay my death eh? You think you have power? Ha! I could show you true power. Release me from this cage and perhaps I would even allow you to live."

"Oh, one with fight, I like. Pray, tell me your name." Arathamus replied coolly.

"I am Iago, son of Tankian. I am a Ursa warrior, a mighty fighter."

"And what is Iago, son of Tankian doing on death row?" Thyme spoke up.

"Hey, I was going to ask that!" Arathamus barked.

"Very well, I may as well tell you. Here's the short story. I was a show fighter for the king here, then the math came along."

"Math?" Rayne asked.

"Yeah, one ursa, two kings daughters, eighteenth birthday, one night. You add it up and you get me here."

Arathamus, Rayne, and Zieckel burst out laughing, and even Astra couldn't hide a chuckle. Thyme thought for a moment and muttered, "well, death is the penalty for such an offense. I hope you enjoyed it."

"Oh, it was fun." Iago chuckled.

"You know what?" Arathamus spoke up once more, "I can probably get you out of here. If I do, would you promise to be our personal bodyguard, a veritable meat shield. What do you say?"

"I say give me an equal share of any spoils of fights, and all the food I can eat, and I'll agree."

"You drive a hard bargain, but it's a deal."

Arathamus spoke to the guard stationed next to the door, "Release Iago into my custody."

"Why, what gives you such authority?" The surly guard questioned.

"This badge, and the backing of High Councilman Amon." Arathamus replied grandiously.

"You… you know Councilor Amon?" the guard stuttered.

"Oh, me and Amon go way back." Arathamus sang glibly.

"Oh my, I'll release him at once. So sorry to be a bother. Please don't tell Councilman Amon about this. I have a family."

"Oh, your cooperation in this matter will be duly noted. Perhaps even a promotion may be in the works for you." Arathamus smiled as the party strolled out the massive door with their new ursa companion in tow. They made their way back up to their quarters where Arathamus had a new room set up for Iago.

"Here Iago, take Kresh here as your personal servant for now. Use him as you see fit until I find a more suitable arrangement." Arathamus offered diplomatically.

The rest of the party took their leave and set off to try to find Jevin, but Thyme had to stop a moment to adjust her armor. Suddenly a series of crashes and screams combined with the sound of snapping bones and smashing furniture reverberated from the suite. Thyme rushed in, flail raised, eyes alert for assassins. She carefully surveyed the carnage in front of her. The furniture was in splinters and Kresh lay on the floor covered with bruises. Iago sat calmly on the bed studiously trimming a cracked claw with his teeth.

"What in the name of Hextor happened here?" Thyme roared.

"This servant's broken. Bring me another please." Iago replied calmly.

With a sigh, Thyme cast a quick healing spell on Kresh and assisted the fallen orc back to his feet. She turned to Iago and glared. "Bad. Bad bad ursa. You don NOT attack allies, I don't care how ugly they are. Kresh is off limits for your attacks, as are any other servants here. If you want to beat people up so badly, I'm sure we can arrange for some more suitable opponents. Until that time however, you are to behave."

"Now dear cleric, I understand, it won't happen again… soon. However, please do realize that I'm a bit smarter than your average bear, and would like to be addressed as such." Iago growled lowly.

"Hmph. Fine, but you still better behave yourself, Iago." Thyme spat as she turned and walked out the door, taking Kresh with her.

She dropped Kresh off at a servants quarters, and hurried to meet up with the rest of the party. She found them in Jevin's room. In Zieckel's hand was a letter from Jevin. His badge of the council lay abandoned upon the bed. The letter explained how there had been news from Jevin's home monastery that required his immediate attention. It seemed that the head abbot had died of old age, and Jevin was being considered as a replacement. His letter closed with this paragraph:

_I realize that there may yet be some unfinished business for our group. Rest assured that I would never abandon allies without arranging for a suitable replacement. In my walk earlier today, I met a ti-gar named Malachi. He is very strong and should be steadfast ally. He claimed that he had important information for us, but I was in a great hurry to leave. He said that you should meet up with him in the courtyard tonight at sundown. I highly recommend that you do so. I sense his motive is true, and that he may be a great aid to you all. Until my travels cause our paths to cross again, _

_I am,_

_Jevin. _

This was startling news for the group, but they agreed that it would be wise to meet up with this Malachi fellow that night. Until that moment, however, they had arrangements to make, as the money in their pockets fairly burned. Arathamus wasn't sure exactly where the rest of the party was going to spend the next few hours, but he was heading to the nobles tavern where he had heard tale of a most vicious mead. It was only proper that an adventurer of his caliber set out to investigate and do battle with such a fearsome opponent.


	8. Chapter 8

The party assembled that evening, complete with a fairly tipsy Arathamus. Rayne and thyme both wrinkled their noses in disgust at the inebriated bard. Iago and a very jittery Zieckel shambled in moments later. Together they silently marched to the courtyard where they were to meet this Malachi. The sun was casting its last few golden rays over the yard as they found the stranger sitting on a bench in the middle of the courtyard, overlooking the guards' training grounds. He was very tall, and of a species that was very unknown to most of the party. Arathamus recognized him as ti-gar, but was shocked to see that his soft fur was of white and black, instead of the usual orange and black coloration. He had never seen a white ti-gar before.

Malachi rose slowly and turned to greet the party as they approached him. He was wearing a suit of very solid looking armor, with fine ornamentation all over it. His armor and his clothes were dyed black, but his blood red cape stood out in sharp contrast as he moved. He wore a small buckler that had runed engravings upon it. Arathamus felt that there was more to that buckler than met the eye. In his right hand, Malachi held a spear that was slightly taller than he was. As he stood a good six foot five inches tall, this was very impressive. Malachi straightened himself up and spoke in a deep, gravely voice.

"Jevin told me you would come, but I wasn't quite certain you would. Come with me, we have much to discuss." Malachi motioned for the group to follow him, but after taking a few steps away, he noticed that not a soul had budged.

Arathamus wasn't quite convinced, and Rayne and Thyme didn't look so sure themselves. Arathamus stole a quick glance toward Astra, but as usual, her stoic face betrayed no hint of emotion. Iago seemed to be the only one who recognized this person, and he shifted backwards a few steps warily. This was certainly not a good sign. Strangely, it was Zieckel who broke the awkward silence.

"Why should we trust you? I think we should demand proof of yourself before we follow you to some unspecified place." the kobold questioned bitingly.

"Fair enough," Malachi replied. He strolled rapidly to a massive shade tree overlooking the courtyard and stopped about ten feet away from it. With a cry he drove his spear out with both arms straight into the truck of the tree. There was a flash of light and the sound of crashing thunder. The area became inundated with flying twigs and bits of tree. The entire tree had literally exploded and burned to a crisp in an instant. The party watched in stunned silence as a pile of ash formed where the once mighty tree had stood. "There is my proof of trustworthiness. I am strong. I am powerful. If I wanted to destroy you, I would have no need to resort to clandestine means. Now follow me, my private suite lies not far from here, and there we have matters to discuss that would be better voiced in private. Quickly now, for time is short, and discretion is necessary."

The party followed in silence and was shortly gathered in a fine room inside Malachi's suite. After motioning for them all to be seated, Malachi spoke once more.

"I see you have that accursed ursa Iago with you now. That will actually make our next step easier, but be warned, that monster is nothing but trouble." Malachi continued speaking and ignored the low growls emitting from the ursa. "Now, you have a very short time to make a very difficult decision. You see, those badges you wear are more than you think. Those badges are coded. While they appear to be simple crests of the council, they actually convey a much darker secret. The council uses badges like the ones you wear to denote people who are to die."

"WHAT!?" Cried out the party as one voice, as even Astra was taken off guard by this proclamation.

"Indeed. You see, the actual crest of the council has jagged edges in the yellow border, but the badges you wear feature a smooth border. It is a secret code that lets the captains of the guards know that you are allowed total freedom for anything you want for three days, except to leave the keep. After those three days are over, you are to be killed in as quite a manner as possible. This have been accomplished in many ways, poisoned food, quick blade work of dominated servants, even a pillow combined with a sleep spell from Amon himself. But one thing is certain, no one with that particular design of badge will live more than 3 days from the day they are given it. No matter your combat prowess, you are royally screwed."

"What do you propose we do?" asked Thyme thoughtfully.

"I say we make a run for it." voiced Arathamus. Perhaps we can escape the guards and seek refuge in the hill country.

"I like the hills." Zieckel said. "My people are from there, I could go underground in the truest sense of the word."

"I agree that we should run, piped in Rayne, but I think we should take to the river and escape to the sea. I have connections aboard the Shadowhawk still. We may find asylum."

"Why run, let's just kill the council!" roared Iago.

"What good would that do us?" Astra questioned.

"I'm not sure, but it'd make me feel better." retorted Iago.

"People, people, settle down. Indeed, the ursa is actually right for once, but not for the reasons he believes. The king appoints the council, and the council elects its head representative. Once elected, the king cannot displace the head councilman, although the others can be replaced by him, barring a veto by the head councilman. So, the king is dead. But if the king wasn't dead, and the head councilman was… then things would be much different. I noticed in your possession an orcish guard who bears a striking resemblance to the king. I speak of Kresh. With a little modification and education, which I can easily provide, he could be Gustav's doppelganger in no time, but still under our control. And if the council's head was gone, he would be strongly motivated to maintain the ruse even after the week is over and he is no longer dominated by Arathamus."

"So, you're saying we need to kill Amon." Thyme probed.

"Exactly."

"I don't like this. This could be a setup." Arathamus commented.

"Indeed, I would like to know where you are getting your information from. This story about the badges seems too convenient for me. If it were true, I would think it would be a heavily guarded secret." The normally reticent Astra growled softly.

"I understand your concern, and indeed it is justifiable." Malachi replied smoothly. "However, allow me to further explain. I am a general in the service of Carnassa. I command the Arcane Assault Corp, the most elite combat troops to ever mass in Carnassa. As a general in command of one of the four divisions of Carnassa's armies, I am privy to exclusive information. All the generals have regular meetings with the head councilman to discuss military policy. As a matter of fact, there is such a meeting being held tonight. That is why I am in town instead of training with my men out in the field. In about an hour, I must be in the council chambers to meet with these other generals and Amon himself. Here is my offer. I help you kill Amon, and you will help me kill the other three generals. Despite the high level of organization here in Carnassa, it is still an orcish nation. If I kill those generals in an open fight, I will rightfully inherit their job. This will give me control over the most powerful army ever assembled in the history of the world. You will have Amon dead. We will have Kresh put up as our puppet king, and the citizenry will be none the wiser. There, that is the honest truth, you will be aiding me as much as I shall be aiding you. I feel that this is a mutually beneficial arrangement."

Thyme spoke up after several moments of stunned silence. "Very well. I see no other recourse. Let us do this. Agreed?" she asked the party.

"Agreed." echoed the others.

The party quickly checked their armor and weapons, and began making their way to the council room. With their badges, and the presence of a general, no guards dared question their progress. They soon came to the heavy doors of the Council chamber, guarded by a pair of elite orc guards.

"Leave," Malachi ordered. "There are matters to discuss which require the utmost of secrecy, not even highly trusted guards such as yourselves are to be allowed near. Take the rest of the night off." Malachi elaborated as his eyes flashed a fierce yellow that caused the battle-hardened guards to melt.

Malachi motioned for Iago to move next to him at the door entrance, and Thyme huddled close behind. Rayne and Zieckel readied their blades and crouched behind the wall of heavily armored fighters. Arathamus made sure his blade was loose in its scabbard and unfastened his spell pouch. His hand slid into the soft leather depths to grasp a single iron needle. Astra unlimbered her bow and knocked an arrow as she stood in the back, her eagle eyes flashing with the fire of a true warrior.

Malachi threw open the doors and the party quickly filed in behind him in a tight formation. Gathered at the far end of the room was Amon and three generals in fine mithril armor. Amon looked up and rose to greet Malachi, then suddenly noticed the gathered party with him, their arms bristling.

"Malachi, why have you brought companions? This is a private meetings!" Amon barked. Malachi said nothing, but leveled his spear and channeled magical energy into it. The massive spear shrank down to a mere four foot span, and began to glow with an eerie orange tint. Amon pivoted his head and called out. "Arathamus, what is the meaning of this?"

Arathamus replied coldly. "You of all people should know, 'betrayers oft find themselves betrayed.'"

"Indeed, you speak the truth as only a beguiler could." Turning to the generals standing around him, Amon called out, "Boys, it's time to have some fun!" So saying, he unlimbered the former king's great axe from across his back, the familiar royal bracers glowing faintly. To his right stood a massive orc general, wearing full plate armor and two massive great axes of his own. The orc grinned a gap-toothed smile as he also brought forth his axes. To the left of Amon stood a human paladin of Hextor, the god's insignia emblazoned on his large metal shield. Bloodshot eyes flashed as recognition flashed though the paladin's brain and his gaze locked upon Thyme, a cleric of his own order. Such betrayal would not be tolerated. "YOU!" the general roared as he pointed at Thyme with his shield arm, then pulled out a massive fullblade sword possessing a blade of a full five feet. The goblin general took one look at the combined might of the oncoming party, and said, "Amon, Slag, Kirnava, you guys have fun. I think I left the stove on, catch you later!" and promptly vanished.

Arathamus stared straight at Amon, focusing all his concentration on his former mentor. It was now or never. "BE STILL!" he cried out as he straightened forth his hand grasping the steel needle. The hold person spell should cause Amon to be easily dispatched, or so Arathamus thought.

Amon grinned wickedly as he felt the spell's hold grip him briefly before he casually shrugged it off. "Last lesson, my student, this is how you do it." he called back and he pointed the massive steel great axe at Arathamus. "BE STILL!" he thundered. Arathamus had just started to grab his lute to imbue the party with a magical song, but found himself unable to move a single muscle. Even the mere act of breathing was difficult, and his chest throbbed as his heart labored against the powerful spell.

Kirnava, the paladin, wasted no time in exploiting this sudden change of events. He rushed forward toward the party. Before he could reach the forces however, Malachi made his own attack. The mighty ti-gar rushed forward and slammed his spear straight into general Slag's chest, piercing the breastplate as though it were made of paper. A rushing and hissing sound filled the room as a fire blast emitted from the spear directly into the general's chest cavity. Smoke billowed from Slag's mouth as he roared in agony over the worst pain he had ever felt in his years on the battlefield. The orc's skin took on a red tinge as the heat from inside gave his very skin first degree burns. As Arathamus watched frozen, he did NOT want to even begin to imagine what the general's internal organs looked like at this point. While this was happening, Rayne took the distraction of the battle between the two generals to rush forward three steps and made a stab straight at the paladin who was still advancing on the gathered forces. Unfortunately for her, the blade bounced harmlessly off of the powerful armor. Seeing the hapless general Slag impaled on the spear, Iago began to tremble violently. The sight and smell of the seared flesh and that of the blood trickling down the orcs armor sent the ursa into a rage. Iago roared mightily and charged the general, attacking with a mighty sweep of his claw. Slag's body shook violently at the force of the blow. Iago's claws ripped through the red hot armor like tissue and left four deep gashes in the general's side. Meanwhile, Thyme had stepped forward and stood face to face with the paladin of Hextor. She cried out with a great voice, invoking her patron deity's aid, "May Hextor curse you and reduce your life force!" The paladin continued onward unaffected. It appeared that perhaps Hextor wasn't quite ready to pick sides in a battle between two of his followers.

Once the party was beginning to be split, Astra now had what was, for her, a clear shot at general Slag. She sent three arrows from her bow in such a rapid succession that the final shot was on it's way before the first impacted general Slag. And impact it did. The arrow whispered forth and passed so close to Iago's still outstretched hand that the fur on his arm parted in a furrow before it finally tore through Slag's throat right in a junction of the armor. The second arrow was following close behind it, and smashed in the general's eye socked as his head pitched forward from the impact of the first arrow. The shock of the arrow to his eye snapped his head back once again, and the final arrow bounced harmlessly off of his metal chin strap. The final arrow was moot anyway however. General Slag slid slowly off of Malachi's spear, his seared entrails spilling out upon the floor with a sickening splash. The odor of death, burned organs, and feces hung heavily in the air.

Zieckel wasn't just standing still. Oh, by no means was he. He had been scurrying forward making a detour to the left so that he was nowhere near the furball that was Slag's last stand. No more than ten seconds had passed from the time Arathamus had tried his unsuccessful hold person on Amon. But Zieckel had used those ten seconds to begin to get well toward Amon. Amon glanced at the scene before him. He realized that the oncoming kobold was a threat indeed, but he had just witnessed the human archer take out who he had thought to be the strongest general in Carnassa. This was disturbing. He took his great axe and pointed it at Astra. _This should fix this, _he thought. "BE STILL" he called forth for the second time that day. However, the impact was much different. Astra actually betrayed a sense of emotion as she reacted to this spell. However, it was most certainly not the reaction Amon had hoped for. Astra was sneering, her upper lip curled in a frightful grin. Despite the death of Slag, Amon felt that this was the most disturbing thing he had seen in a very long time. No one should be able to resist his spells. This change of circumstances gave him cause for alarm, and he took immediate action. Amon grasped a signet ring he wore on his battle axe hand, and vanished. The still stuck Arathamus was shocked. Apparently Amon had grown not only in power political and arcane, but he had managed to gain associations with makers of powerful magic devices. A ring of invisibility was rarer than hen's teeth, and more valuable than entire dukedoms.

Kirnava did not waste time over the sudden disappearance of two of his allies, he had a mob on his hands. He turned and swung his fullblade into Thyme, but her armor absorbed the brunt of the impact, sending the blade glancing harmlessly away. However, the paladin took the momentum from the rebound and slammed his blade into Rayne, cutting deep into her thigh. She was hurt, but her sturdy armor managed to keep it from being a mortal wound. She was still definitely in the fight.

Iago took a great whiff of air, trying to smell the hidden councilman out of hiding. Harsh smells of gore and other ghastly odors emitting from Slag was all he could smell though. He rushed forward blindly anyway and slashed where Amon had stood, but his claws caught nothing but air. Malachi wasted little time with attacks however, instead muttering an incantation, "By this spell, let that which is unseen do tell, bring forth all that is hidden to sight, so I may slay it with my might." His eyes glowed a bright white as he suddenly became able to see all invisible things. He stared straight at Amon, standing away a mere few strides away. Malachi focused his concentration and magical energy into his buckler, causing it to grow from a small target to a full medium shield size. At the same time, his massive seven foot long spear shrank to a short spear length. At this point, Amon probably realized that this was becoming a very bad day.

Thyme was growing increasingly angry with her opponent. Deciding to switch to more physical attack, she swung her mighty flail at the armored foe. The air whooshed with the sound of the spiked ball rushing toward the paladin, and then was filled with a clang as the mass bounced harmlessly off Kirnava's metal shield. Rayne took advantage of the distraction to successfully thrust her rapier blade into a gap in the paladin's leg armor. Blood seeped from the wound, but her attempt at a full emasculation was unsuccessful.

Iago once again attacked the darkness, his rage filling his body as he swung randomly trying to find the hidden councilman. Astra pivoted her bow however, seeing as the councilman was out of sight. She quickly unleashed another barrage of arrows, as three shafts flew swiftly from her hands. Two of the arrows found gaps in the paladin's armor, while the third bounced off his sturdy armor. Arathamus observed the attack from the corner of his eyes, as he was still stuck. The archer's aim was ungodly accurate. He made a note to never piss her off from within a thousand yards.

Suddenly a white hot lightning bolt erupted forth from the corner of the room, striking Iago square in the chest. Sparks crawled over his massive breastplate as he roared in pain, however the metal served to dissipate the damage somewhat, and he was far from mortally hurt. The acrid smell of burned hair now joined the nauseating plethora of smells in the room.

Kirnava the paladin raised his mighty fullblade and swung it in a great arc. It hit Rayne with a powerful blow that sent her reeling and seriously injured, before following though and connecting with Thyme. The blade cut deep into her shoulder and lodged in her armor. Bits of flesh flew as the general yanked the massive blade out and reset his guard. Thyme screamed a plea to Hextor, "May Hextor pay back in full and with interest any harm done to his faithful servant!" An intensely dark ball of energy suddenly formed in front of Thyme, shooting forth and blasting into the general. He reeled and grunted, but was still standing. However, he seemed to be swaying slightly in his bulky armor. Perhaps the end was near for him.

Malachi wasted no more time toying with Amon, quickly shrinking his shield back to buckler size and raising his left hand opened, palm facing the councilman. "Fwoosh!" Malachi barked as he sent a fireball straight at Amon. The councilman leaped and dodged the flaming orb, but was severely singed when the ball hit the floor and erupted in a massive explosion. Now he was no longer invisible, and to make matters worse for him, there was a very angry ursa staring at him, and a blood crazed kobold skittering madly straight at him. Zieckel rushed forward and tumbled behind Amon, executing a forward roll that would do a gymnast proud. He moved so fast that Amon was confused for a moment as to where he had gone. His location was quickly made apparent as he slammed his wrist blade deep into Amon's left kidney. Amon screamed in pain and collapsed forward, catching himself on his hands as the deadly blade slid out of his side. Just as he managed to stand up, a massive and very furry arm caught him across his neck. Iago clotheslined the hapless Amon, sending right back into the floor, this time without anything to cushion his fall. Iago followed him down and pinned his legs and one arm down to the floor. Grinning wildly, he prepared to do same massive damage with his teeth.

Noticing the effectiveness of the fireball on Amon, Thyme quickly muttered a quick incantation and pointed her flail to a spot not to distant behind her opponent. A rush of flame rose from the ground as a flamestrike seared the area. Luckily she had calculated it so that only the paladin was injured from this blast, and boy was he. Steam rose from the armor as the massive human began to stagger. However, he still stood. Astra fired another three arrows at the armored hulk, but they all bounced off harmlessly. The heat diffraction of the air around him must have foiled her aim.

Arathamus observed all this calmly as the strained to break free of the hold person spell. Finally he was able to twitch one hand, and the pressure in his chest had subsided. However, he was still solidly bound.

Amon stared up into the teeth of a great ursan face, scarred from many battles. As Iago growled fiercely at him, he flexed his right hand upward. Clutched in his bony fingers was a small wand, about the size of a conductor's baton. Concentrating as best he could given the fact that there was a very large barbarian on top of him, he fired the wand straight into Iago's chest. The lightning bolt bore a tiny hole in the breastplate and sent the scent of burned fur once more wafting into the air, this time combined with the scent of seared flesh. Iago roared in pain as the electrical charge tore into him.

The paladin had no time for observing Amon's struggles however, as he swung once more at Thyme. His massive blade dinged off the cleric's armor and rebounded toward Rayne. This time however, the swashbuckler deftly parried the oncoming sword.

Malachi took once quick look at the situation and decided to finish Amon with a

bang. He rushed forward and raised his foot and brought it crashing to the ground. "Sorry guys!" he yelled as a wall of flames erupted with him at it's epicenter. Zieckel managed to do an acrobatic backflip and dodges the flames. Iago however, was not so lucky. Burning flames engulfed both him and Amon. For several seconds the room was filled with screams of agony, ursan and drow. When the smoke cleared however, there was nothing left but a very, very angry ursa standing over a large pile of ash that once was Amon.

"Never, ever do that again! Ok?" the barbarian barked at Malachi, who replied with a nonchalant shrug. "Hey, he's dead isn't he?" The two warriors then turned as one, and followed closely by Zieckel, prepared to charge the only remaining opponent in the room. At this moment, a slight curse escaped the mostly silent paladin. Rayne once again stabbed at him, but her blade proved futile against his armor. Just at that moment, Iago came barreling in and swiped at the paladin with a massive sweep of his claw, and missed. The massive claws cleaved the air and nearly sent Iago off balance as he thundered to a halt. Thyme took the opportunity to attack once more with her flail, and pounded the paladin's massive armor twice, but inflicted nothing more than some harmless dents.

With the death of Amon, Arathamus was finally free of the dread holding spell. He took one look at the paladin, and waved his hands and muttered a quick draconic phrase. The paladin's shield hand shot to his forehead as though he had been hit by a brick in the temple. Kirnava flailed wildly with his fullblade and turned around as he sent the deadly sword crashing down into the stone floor. Unfortunately for Zieckel, the kobold had just tumbled behind the heavily armored foe in preparation to do a nasty backstab. As the fullblade made its way crashing to the ground, it was slowed briefly by the body of Zieckel. Two neat halves of kobold rogue splattered to the floor, held together by only a thin flap of skin on his scaly back. The blade rebounded of the hard stone floor and the paladin used the momentum to deliver another wild swing, this time grazing Iago on his breastplate and drawing a thin line of blood. The blade kept swinging, as its weight caused it to build up velocity before slamming into Rayne's right arm. The swashbuckler grunted in pain as her arm fell limp and useless to her side. Before her rapier fell to the ground she grabbed the falling blade with her left hand and quickly made two stabs at the paladin. The first attack bounced off the thick armor, but the second one struck true in between his ribs. The massive paladin staggered back at the pain. Just as he stepped back, Iago swung his massive claw once again and successfully slipped a claw between the paladin's helm and armor. Doing a pirouette, Iago came about with the other claw and bashed the helm so fiercely that the helm, complete with head, flew across the room and clanged noisily against the far wall. A fountain of spurting blood erupted from the cleanly severed neck. Before the body could collapse to the floor naturally, Iago had grasped it with both his hands, and hurled it to the floor, fierce teeth mauling away at any exposed flesh. It was several moments before he settled down, finally realizing that the battle was won.

Surveying the damage, Thyme quickly cast healing spells on the surviving party members, even mending Rayne's broken arm. After looking at Zieckel, she spoke softly. "I never really liked that annoying bastard, but I'll give him this much, he certainly managed to do damage when it was most needed. I'll be right back with a few more clerics and we'll bring this poor guy back to life. You guys clean up here while I'm gone. This shouldn't take more than ten minutes."

So saying, she swiftly exited the room as the party began to strip and loot the two generals. Arathamus went over to the ashes of Amon and searched for any mementos of his former master. Pretending not to find anything of real value, he furtively slipped the ring of invisibility and the lightning wand into his bag of holding. They would make a great addition to his arsenal at a later date. Calling out to Iago, he tossed the mighty braces and the ex-king's great axe over to the now recovered ursa. "Here, I have a feeling that these might come in handy for you, besides, they ain't my style."

After about twenty minutes had passed, and through certain arcane means Malachi had disposed of all evidence of a massive battle, Thyme returned. She had two orc clerics with her who seemed to be most unwilling recruits. Several bruises and a black eye on the one who was not limping suggested that she may have been required to "persuade" them somewhat. "Here he is, the damn ursa got a bit out of hand, and now we have to get this sucker up again." she said, pointing at the kobold butterflied on the floor. The clerics looked uneasily at the massive Iago, who was contenting himself by alternating between twirling his new axe with one hand simply hugging it's massive blade and rolling on the floor. "Mmmm, shiny, and so pretty…" the ursa mumbled as he drooled over the incredible masterwork great axe.

"Right away maam! Then we can leave right?"

"Sure, fine, whatever, just get him walking again."

"The clerics quickly began a series of hurried chants in which they huddled over the body of the fallen rogue. Occasionally they stopped to throw bits of diamond dust into the air, where it vanished by an unseen magical force. After about 5 minutes, the kobold's body completely mended and Zieckel arose live and whole once more, albeit with a slight wardrobe malfunction. As soon as he stood whole once more, the clerics ran swiftly out to the room, leaving no trace but a pool of sweat where they had knelt during the ceremony. Zieckel quickly tied his robe back together and started to scurry off to somewhere safer, when he felt himself jerked abruptly to a stop by Malachi.

"Gentlemen, we have little time. I'll finish cleaning up here and begin my training of Kresh to be our stooge king. While I attend to this, you guys need to go to Gustav's room and fetch me the spare set of ceremonial armor the king kept in his wardrobe. Best take the rogue with you, it's liable to be trapped."

Ten minutes later found the party huddled against a far wall while Zieckel carefully examined a tall, broad, and all in all truly massive wardrobe. He had been inspecting it for about three minutes, and seemed fairly nervous. "There's nothing here guys, come on, why don't one of you come and get the gear, it'll be too heavy for me to carry." Zieckel called out to his comrades.

"No thanks," Arathamus called back, "we'll let you open it first."

"Allright." Zieckel said finally, "But seriously, if there was a trap here, I'd have found it by now." So saying, he grabbed the heavy handle and swung the door open. As he gazed into interior, he noticed the air shimmering with some sort of distortion, akin to that of a heat mirage. "Son of a…" he muttered as he quickly tumbled out of the way of the onrushing fireball. The room swiftly became engulfed in smoke and flames, and the scent of burned cloth and singed hair filled the air. When the smoke cleared, there stood a coughing Thyme, Arathamus, Astra, and Rayne, and a very angry ursa. "That's the second time this day!" Iago roared. Zieckel took one look at the growling barbarian and simply shrugged nonchalantly. "Hey, I got it open."

Hey, that's all for this chapter. Tune in next week as we follow the amazing adventures of this most unlikely party. See how they spend their time now that they control a kingdom. What exploits will they perpetrate? What new weapons will they acquire? Who will Iago beat up without cause next? TUNE IN NEXT WEEK TO FIND OUT!


	9. Chapter 9

The days following the execution of the council flew by swiftly. By combining their magical skills, Arathamus and Malachi managed to quickly turn Kresh into a perfect replica of King Gustav. The story the party sowed to the people of Carnassa was that the council had been plotting to overthrow the rightful king, and thanks to Malachi and his allies, the attempt had been thwarted. With Kresh firmly under the control of Arathamus (his will save sucked, and command person could be cast every ten days indefinitely), the group had complete freedom in all of the royal keep and city. Life was good. Everyone had new weapons made, utilizing the best and newest of methods of metallurgy. Arathamus traded in his rapier for a scimitar, Rayne traded hers in for a cutlass, and even Malachi switched to a fine longsword, discarding his old shape shifting spear. Despite it taking two weeks to custom fit, Astra became the proud owner of a greatbow made with the latest in composite materials. Everyone in the party had been enjoying the luxuries afforded to them as the new de-facto council of Carnassa.

Arathamus enjoyed spending times studying lore in the royal library immensely. Although it was far from the largest library in the world, it had quite a collection of bardic songs, many too bawdy to ever have been heard in the human lands of Terdan, much less the more staid societies of the dwarves or elves. Legendary poems such as "There's a Wart on the Duke's Dick" and "The Ballad of Elsie, the Loosest Tavern Wench in the World" were preserved in full glorious detail. Some of them even came with finely detailed ink drawings. Such a richness of song and verse he had seldom seen. He spent countless hours pouring over bardic spell lists of long forgotten arcanists, and copying down his favorite verses.

Arathamus also found some disturbing correspondence in his former mentor's private quarters. He found a letter made out to him from Amon explaining the badge code, and outlining how it was necessary to eliminate the murderers of the king. The package contained a ring identical to the one he found on Amon combined with instructions on how to best escape the purge. Apparently Amon had not intended for his prized student to meet the same fate as the rest of the party. But now Amon was dead, and all his planning was for naught. Arathamus felt a tinge of sadness over the outcome, but managed to be as practical as possible about the entire situation. He kept the letter to himself, and gave the spare ring to Zieckel. Arathamus had figured out the trick to activating his magic ring, and was confidant the kobold would be able to do as much. The wand he had recovered from Amon had proved to be a challenge at first, but after some experimentation and the lighting induced death of an orc cleaning lady named Isabel; he finally got the hang of using the magic device. Arathamus had some pretty nasty plans for what he could do by combining the power of that ring and his new wand.

Iago took a personal interest in training the castle guards, and insisted on pushing them to their furthest limits. As a side effect of this training, Thyme managed to get more practice in healing and resurrections than she had ever thought possible in such a short time. The orcs were tough, but Iago was just plain brutal.

Astra was seldom seen, except during meal times. It seemed that she preferred solitude, but now she was able to experience it in style. Perhaps more so than any other member of the party, she explored the keep grounds and outlaying areas. Many days would find her returning from the woods with a stag draped over her shoulders for the cooks to prepare to her exacting standards.

Malachi contented himself with affairs of the state, and began drawing up plans for a new Carnassa army, all under his sole direction. Once Kresh had been trained sufficiently, it seemed that all things would be possible for the ti-gar.

Rayne spent her days alternating gleefully between rolling on the coins in the royal treasury and rolling in something entirely different in the former king's private "boom boom room." It seemed her tastes were of a variety most exotic. This was paradise for the swashbuckler, and the days passed like seconds for her.

Zieckel had never fully recovered emotionally from his more than near death experience in the fight with the generals. He spent a great deal of his time in the royal baths and swimming pools. Constant dailies scrub downs became an essential part of his daily routine. Luckily for him, his status as a member of the new Carnassa council ensured that he didn't have to do all the scrubbing himself… that's what servants were for.

So, our heroes, if you can call them such, all seemed to be enjoying their days in well (or ill) deserved luxury. However, the saying that all good things must come to an end still held true for this party. Roughly a mere month after the death of Amon and the generals, frightful news reached the ears of Malachi. Apparently, Gustav's eldest son had been informed of the true story, and was marching toward the capital with the combined armies of Carnassa. What made the story even more dreadful was the fact that the rumors also gave perfect descriptions of his accompanying adviser and generals, none other than Amon and the others. Malachi quickly gathered his allies together in the great chamber room for an emergency meeting.

"Ok, we're tough, but we can't take on an entire army. Hell, it looks like the jigs up. We need to get some distance between us and Carnassa fast."

"All right," replied Zieckel quickly, "why don't we head deep into the mountains, my people can hide us till things blow over."

"Not a good idea kobold," Malachi replied. "The army and the scouts would find us and cut us off long before we made it that deep inland."

"Then, to the sea we shall go!" exclaimed Rayne. "I have connections aboard the Shadowhawk. We need fear no force upon the high seas."

"True, your privateer compatriots to control the high seas for now, but they do not control the rivers or roads that could take us to port. I am afraid that this is far to dangerous for us to attempt to escape by mundane means. However, I can teleport us anywhere that I know the precise location of. I can take us all there instantly with no chance of error, but unfortunately, there are only three places I know of outside of Carnassa that I could translocate us to successfully. Those being the respective capitals of the nations. There is Mardin inTerdan, Murodoria in Gabilgathol, the land of the dwarves, or Elahoria in Avandara, the land of the elves. Where do you wish to go?"

Arathamus spoke up softly. "I'm wanted in Alrader for murder of a noble, and I'm banished from Murodor. They probably wouldn't like it very much if I returned. I suppose I could disguise myself but that's a lot of trouble."

Thyme then voiced her opinion. "Both Alrader and Murodor are very hostile to both orcs and kobolds. While you and Iago and the humans could go there, Zieckel and I could not."

"Very well then, the decision is apparent. We shall go to Terdan." Malachi decreed. "Meet me back here in an hour, and I shall have the teleportation spell prepared."

The gathered comrades quickly dispersed, each to gather their own belongings and finish any unfinished business left at the keep. Arathamus quickly gathered his belongings, and was heading back to the throne room when he decided to take one last visit to the Royal boom boom room. Roughly twenty minutes later, he departed and quickly made his way back to the throne room. He encountered Iago on the way back and gave him a wide berth. Despite his sworn oath to defend the party, Iago was still a force to be reckoned with and not one that Arathamus desired to contend with.

Arathamus got to the throne room a full fifteen minutes before the rest of the party, and waited for them to file in. The party slowly gathered as each member arrived separately. It seemed that all the provisions were gathered and each person arrived with full armor donned. As Iago walked into the room, the stench of fresh blood and gore followed him; the massive ursa was covered in blood and strands of gore, and bore several minor cuts over his body, including a very nasty cut on his brow.

"What the hell happened to you?" Zieckel questioned the mighty warrior.

"I killed all the whores in the boom boom room, but some of 'em had knives, and one of the orc bitches took a polearm to me. Her death was especially pleasant for me.

"You sir, are a sick, twisted, sadistic, disturbed individual. I LIKE YOU!" Arathamus laughed jovially as he slapped the ursa across his broad back.

"You're a mess, both of you." Thyme grumbled as she cast a quick minor healing spell on the bearish brute.

"Heh, just means more loot for me!" cried out Rayne as she waltzed in, her backpack bulging with loot from the royal treasury. With each step she took, small coins fell to the floor with a chiming sound.

"Let's just get out of here, we need some open space." Astra opined.

Malachi was standing over a local scryer and finalizing the procedure for the teleportation spell and for the most part ignored the rest of the group. After a moment, he nodded at the scryer.

"Ok, you locked in?" asked the scryer.

"Affirmative. Allright compatriots, everyone make sure you're touching at least one other person so we all get transported. Oh, and Iago…"

"Yes?" the ursa replied.

"Kill the scryer and carry the body, we don't want the council finding out where we went."

"Wait, WHAT?" the scryer screamed right before Iago turned and instantly disemboweled him with a quick sweep of his claw. The ursa threw the bloody corpse over his shoulders and grabbed onto Arathamus' shoulder. The bard showed great self control by keeping his flinch minimal. After a moment where time seemed to stand still and rush frenetically simultaneously, the party found themselves standing in a large field near a road. A densely wooded forest lay around a thousand feet away, and the packed dirt road cut through the fields giving the forest a decent berth. After a quick suggestion from Arathamus, Iago strolled over to the edge of the woods and dumped the scryer's body. The group then made a leisurely stroll into the capital city, a mere hour's journey away. Malachi could have teleported them closer, even in the central square, but he wanted to avoid causing any undue alarm. With the band of adventurers he was saddled with, he was sure there would be plenty drama soon enough.

Once in the city, the party procured lodging in the finest inn in the city, each person getting an entire suite to themselves. The extravagance was not without risk, but they felt reasonably secure so far away from Carnassa. Arathamus went out and began to gather information from the locals. It was amazing what one could discover just by overhearing the small talk of merchants and customers in the crowded marketplace. But to track down the best gossip, there was only one tried and true method: ask a bartender. Taking this knowledge to heart, Arathamus sought out a tavern that was situated in a prime location. Just outside of the marketplace, near several warehouses and not too far from the main gates of the city. Anything or anyone interesting would be known of at this establishment. Arathamus saddled up to the bar inside and signaled the bartender.

"What'll it be stranger?"

"Honey mead, your best, and in a clean stein." Arathamus stated crisply.

"Not much call for mead here, stranger. I have it, but most folks around here want ale. Where you from?" The barkeeper asked as he selected a stein and worked the spigot to a small keg under the bar.

"I'm from all over friend. I travel the world wide as a bard. I can't seem to stay in one place too long to call anyplace home. I've just sorta blown into town, what's the latest news?" Arathamus quipped easily.

"Well, the talk of the entire countryside is the major tournament happening in the city of Harpo about two days away from here. Some organization hosts a tournament there every three years with almost no rules. They take teams of anywhere from one to ten people and have 'em duke it out till only one team is left standing. They even have clerics to heal and revive anyone from the winning team who dies. The losing teams have to pay for their own healing or resurrections. If you can't pay, you stay dead. It's pretty tough I hear, and it costs a small fortune to enter. The entrance fee is two thousand gold per person, but the grand prize is four hundred thousand to the winning team. That's a lot of money, makes people think it's worth the risk."

"Fascinating. You hear anything about the contestants?"

"Well, the tournament doesn't start for three more days, but there's always a few noticeable favorites. The organizers swing some pretty hefty diplomatic power, they grant temporary immunity to any criminals who enter the tournament for the duration of the tournament, so there's a wide variety of fighters going there. I've seen gnomes and halflings, humans and elvs, even dwarves and orcs heading there lately. I've even heard rumors about ogres entering the tournament. I tell you what though, that one woman who calls herself "Team Pegasus" is currently the crowd favorite to win. She's come in the top four for the last three years. She's always forfeited the final rounds before claiming that there isn't any real competition, but this year she's announced she's planning to go all the way."

"One woman? And she's the favorite?" Arathamus asked in stunned disbelief.

"Aye, one woman, and her steed. I tell you though, she makes very short work of her opponents, if it weren't for that, she'd be the crowd favorite across the board. The main complaint about her is that she kills the other teams to quickly."

"Interesting indeed. Very well, thanks for the mead and the information, but I just remembered an important appointment elsewhere. I bid you farewell." So saying, Arathamus headed back to the inn to meet with his companions.

On his way to the inn, Arathamus wandered by the local marshal's office and saw a very disturbing poster pinned to the outside wall.

"WANTED FOR REGICIDE AND MURDER OF HIGH NOBLES OF CARNASSA:" the poster proclaimed, complete with astonishingly accurate sketches of himself and the rest of his party, and advertised a reward for the party of a hundred thousand gold each alive, and two hundred thousand each dead. Looking both ways quickly, Arathamus quickly produced a small brush and a bottle of ink and deftly altered the sketches with some creative application of mustaches and other facial features. In less than a minute, the entire cast in the poster bore little resemblance to himself and his party. It was a quick fix, and wouldn't be permanent however, as there were certain to be more posters elsewhere. It seemed that Amon had been busy in the past month, and perhaps nowhere was safe for the party.

Arathamus finally returned to the inn and reported all the information he had gathered in his travels that day. Malachi seemed very intent as he listened to the story about the tournament. When Arathamus mentioned the bounty placed on their collective heads the entire party became very thoughtful.

"I say we go to this tournament, if for no other reason than the diplomatic immunity, it'll give us some time to make a plan, and give us some serious spending cash once we win." Rayne voiced.

"I never lost a pit fight yet!" boasted Iago.

"Aye, and it'd be a good chance to bust some Heronian sculls too I wager." Thyme opined.

"I'm game, should make for easy target practice, and more restful nights." Astra put in.

"Ah hell, you guys fight, I think I'll watch from the sidelines, maybe get you some intel on the competition. Pit fighting isn't for rogues, we like to hide. Open coliseums don't work best for us." Zieckel grumbled.

Malachi spoke up, "Well, seven blades are better than six, so I'll enroll you, if you change your mind before the tourney is over you can join, but if you don't fight, you don't get a cut of the prize."

"Not my worry." Zieckel retorted.

Once the party had agreed on a course of action they returned to their individual rooms. Through the night, Arathamus heard strange noises coming from Iago's room however. First it was just a lot of groaning and moaning and sighs, but then there was a series of heavy thuds and gurgling screams. With a groan, Arathamus cast a zone of silence spell on his room and returned to sleep. Many of the other party members had been fortunate enough to bunk in rooms much further from Iago's suite, but poor Zieckel ended up spending the entire night curled up in a corner chanting to himself "Find a happy place…" as Iago entertained himself that night. It seemed that Iago and Rayne had pooled their financial resources and hired fifteen local prostitutes to entertain them in his private suite. It had started as a simple orgy, but something one of the ladies said seemed to have set Iago off into a brutal and sadistic mauling spree. Rayne was only too happy to join in as they worked to slowly and elaborately dispatch the courtesans. Unfortunately for them, in the chaos a single prostitute managed to escape. The next morning there would be more wanted posters over town bearing vivid descriptions of the two sadists. It was going to be a very interesting week.

A/NOK, I'm getting a tad behind on the updates, as there have been two rounds of the tournament so far, but I'll be sure to catch up swiftly. This chapter gave me the worst writer's block yet, but the combat should be fairly straightforward, albeit hilarious. Expect rapid updates within the next week, so stay tuned!

NEXT CHAPTER: TOURNAMENT ROUND ONE!

POSTLOGUE: contained beneath this notice are the two songs found mentioned in the beginning of this chapter. Reader be warned, the following verses contain adult language and adult situations. These are not for the light of heart so do not read beyond if you are easily offended. You have been warned.

"There's a Wart on the Duke's Dick"

Sung to the tune of "the wheels of the bus go round and round"

There's a wart on the duke's dick the size of a gnome

The size of a gnome, the size of a gnome

There's a wart on the duke's dick the size of a gnome

AND HE'S ONLY TWO INCHES LONG!

There's a wart on the duke's dick the size of halfling

The size of a halfling, the size of a halfling

There's a wart on the duke's dick the size of halfling

AND HE'S ONLY TWO INCHES LONG!

There's a wart on the duke's dick the size of a dwarf

The size of an dwarf, the size of a dwarf

There's a wart on the duke's dick the size of a dwarf

AND HE'S ONLY TWO INCHES LONG!

There's a wart on the duke's dick the size of an elf

The size of an elf, the size of an elf

There's a wart on the duke's dick the size of an elf

AND HE'S ONLY TWO INCHES LONG!

There's a wart on the duke's dick the size of a man

The size of a man, the size of a man

There's a wart on the duke's dick the size of a man

AND HE'S ONLY TWO INCHES LONG!

There's a wart on the duke's dick the size of an orc

The size of an orc, the size of an orc

There's a wart on the duke's dick the size of an orc

AND HE'S ONLY TWO INCHES LONG!

"The Ballad of Elsie, the Loosest Tavern Wench in the World"

'Twas a cold and bitter winter's morn

An orc soldier desperate to get warm

Wandered into a tattered old inn

And that my friend, is where this tale does begin

He stumbled to the bar and with a dreadful roar

Bellowed for ale in a voice to make all ears sore

Then the soldier began to brag

About the pole fixed to his bag

"I'm a warrior strong and brave

When I was born, the midwives my face did shave

I'm strong as an ox, the best at my craft

There never was a woman who could stand my shaft!

"Why when I was but five

I frightened most every woman alive

When I was but nine

Human woman I set a cryin'!

When I was a lad of twelve

Dwarven woman I could no longer delve

When I was a man of twenty

Ruptured woman had I left plenty!

Even now, as a warrior of forty years and two

I doubt a big enough hole there is for me to screw

Where I to find such a deep pit

With all my gold would I fill it!"

Then came there Elsie the Tavern Wench

She served him ale upon his bench

Then she spoke in a voice so meek

"I wager you've that I'm such a freak"

The soldier bellowed out

"The will you have, I've no doubt!

But all the being that dwell on this plane

To contain me have tried but in vain"

But Elsie would not be swayed

"To me this day shall your gold be paid"

And saying so she lifted her hoops

And reached down and pulled out a chicken coop

With a stir of her feet upon the floor

Out of her cave ran a charging boar

And with a sickening sound

Not one but two gnomes fell to the ground

Then she said with a shine in her eyes

Why don't you try now, 'fore I evict the rest of the guys

She reached for his belt but he sprang back in fear

"To venture there I've not the right gear!"

So the soldier cloaked in shame

To old Elsie, that cavernous dame

His life's earning grudgingly gave

A fortune enough to make Midas rave

So adventurer's take heed of this tale

Lest you end up in debtor's gaol

Never boast of a spear so large

Lest you believe you can hold the charge

Old Elsie now is rich

But she's still a mean ol' bitch

Now she lives in far hills so thorny

But be warned lads, they say she's still horny!


	10. Chapter 10

Early that day, the party made it to the tournament enrollment booth and forked over the considerable sum for the entrance fee. Malachi marked all of them down as members, but confirmed that not all seven were required to participate in every match. Zieckel wished the group luck and went to watch the tournament from the bleachers.

"What is the name of your team?" the tournament registrar inquired. After a brief discussion, they replied, "Team Chaos."

"Very well, go through those doors, you made it just in time for the beginning matches; you will be called for your round later on today." Indeed, several hours later a human guard entered the room where the newly named "Team Chaos" was waiting impatiently. "It's time, go through the hallway, make a left at the gate, and right outside is your first match. Try to make it entertaining, and remember, we have clerics on hand to resurrect you should you die in the tournament, providing you win. If you lose, you'll need to be willing to pay the full fee for such a resurrection however. Good luck."

Team Chaos marched nonchalantly out into the arena, a massive open air coliseum with hard packed dirt floor and bleachers filled with thousands of roaring fans. Arathamus happily played a power balled upon his lute as his comrades made their dynamic entrance. It seemed that they won the unseen backstage coin toss and were the first ones into the arena. On the far side of the arena, they saw a metal gate being raised; their opponents were on their way. The crowd cheered with glee as long shadows began to appear from the door. What manner of powerful foes had the fates concocted for this team" Arathamus wondered.

Finally the opposing team came forth and revealed themselves. Four gnomes in full plate armor and bearing holy symbols emblazoned upon their shields emerged to the thunderous applause of the crowd. They waved at the crowd and then stood side by side in a row and cried out as with one voice. "May Glittergold protect us and exact vengeance on any who strike us!"

"Oh shit," Thyme muttered, "they did NOT just call down divine retribution upon themselves."

Malachi looked out at the gnomish opponents and replied bitterly, "I think they just did."

"Ha, well two can play that game!" Thyme chuckled as she slapped her own version of the spell upon herself and invoked Hextor's power.

Rayne spoke up softly, "Damn it, I bet Zieckel is kicking himself for missing out on this round! Gnomes! Why did it have to be gnomes?"

Just then the announcer signaled for the fight to begin. "Shit, I guess it's up to me to get started." Astra swore softly as she rapidly unlimbered her bow and fired three arrows in quick succession at the nearest gnome. The first arrow slammed through the metal plate armor and straight into the gnome's chest, causing a bright golden glow to form in front of him that shot unerringly back at the archer. The pain was searing, but she still managed to send her other arrows at the divine warrior. One more arrow plowed through the armor and struck true, but the other clanged harmlessly off of his mighty shield. Although the two arrows had pierced the armor, the metal plating had slowed them down enough to make the wounds minor annoyances.

Another of the gnomes ran forward quickly while the rest were still standing still. Rayne took the distraction of Astra's shot to dart forward herself and shuffle to the side to prepare to flank the combatants. Malachi raised his hand and cast a lighting bold straight at the gnomish pincushion. There was a flash of electrical heat and fire as the gnome's hair stood on end as his helmet went flying off. The gnome coughed smoke but seemed to be still fairly hearty.

Thyme saw the gnomes standing in the back and called down a flame strike on the still steaming gnome. The column of flame roared and as it faded, there was nothing but a pile of ash and smoldering armor where the hapless gnome had stood. The impact of the blast had also jarred another gnome and his divine retribution sped fiercely into Thyme's face, searing it and leaving a mass of charred hair on her scalp. No sooner had this occurred than the dark fury of Hextor's divine retribution slammed back at the gnome, inflicting far greater wounds upon the small figure. Arathamus had been watching the flurry of activity with much intent, and finally had decided on a course of action. Throwing his lute over his shoulder with flair, he drew his scimitar with his right hand, and rapidly uttered a spell of confusion directed at the gnomes. This same spell had turned orc guards into their own enemies, but these gnomes shrugged off the attack as if nothing had happned. Arathamus shuffled to the side a few paces and crouched, waiting for the inevitable onslaught of the gnomish charge.

Iago was not one to be forgotten however, and one would do so at their own peril. The mighty ursa roared into a raging frenzy, biting his own tongue to stimulate his body into the barbarian state. He rushed forward and slammed his greataxe into the nearest gnome. Once again the golden retribution of Glittergold rebounded, but the ursa was beyond caring. The gnome who had just been singed by Thyme's flame attack rushed forward and with a loud cry of invocation to Glittergold, smote Iago with a holy blow. The lawful good energy slammed into the mighty ursa with a bang. The besought ursa staggered with the pain as a massive gash was carved into his leg and slammed with the holy might of the god of the gnomes. Astra fired rapidly a series of shots at the gnome Iago had just hit. All but one of the arrows clattered harmlessly off of the pristine armor, with the successful one merely lodging it self in a meaty part of the gnome's arm. The final gnome that was still in the back of the field rushed forward to aid his friend. Rayne quickly dashed toward the gnome and attempted to dodge an attack from his longsword as she skittered by him. She failed to dodge in time however, and received a crushing blow to her side. Wounded, she still managed to flank the gnome who had just smote Iago, and swung her cutlass fiercely into his shoulder before it bounced off of his bones. The gnome's shield arm hung limp as he staggered from the force of the blow.

Malachi looked on in horror as his team-mates withstood such withering blows. Cursing vigorously, rushed forward to aid the reeling Ursa. Before he could reach Iago, the wounded gnome swung another smiting attack at the barbarian, barely missing. The glow of holy energy faded from the blade briefly as it impacted the ground, but suddenly began to blaze anew as he pivoted with alarming grace and cried out a holy invocation at Rayne as he smote her with all his paladin might. The blade sliced through her armor and carved into her abdomen as she cried out with the fiercest pain she had ever known. Rayne stood stunned for a moment as the blade flew out her other side. With a sickening slurping sound, her entrails began to ooze from the gash in her armor. The proud swashbuckler collapsed to the ground dead, a horrified look of disbelief etched on her lifeless face.

Thyme saw this tragedy from the back of the gathered party, and swore holy vengeance as she rushed forward. It was too late to save Rayne, but she would be damned if she allowed another ally to fall on her watch. Arathamus was also moved to action by the death of his comrade, and with a flick of his left wrist, the wand used so devastatingly by Amon appeared in his hand. Crying out the magical word of release, he send a lightning bolt tearing into the gnome that he suddenly noticed was charging straight for him. With a deft flick of his hands, he then quickly activated the ring upon his finger and vanished from sight. The audience roared in approval as it appeared as though he had turned himself into a kamikaze lighting bolt for all practical purposes. The gnome was hurt, but still very much determined to continue his forward rush. Astra launched another barrage of arrows straight into the charging gnome, and the short paladin began to resemble a charred pincushion. Undeterred, he continued his rush as the now invisible Arathamus deftly stepped aside and allowed his passage. As the gnome rushed past the invisible bard, Arathamus swung down with a mighty blow and left a red streak across the gnomes back as the blade carved through the lesser protection of the paladin's armor. The Gnome staggered, totally confused and oblivious to what had just hit him.

As Malachi came to the defense of Iago, he growled as he raised his sword. The spellblade glowed fiercely as he funneled yet more power into the arcane blade. With a roar, the ferocious ti-gar rammed his sword into the soft flesh between the nearest gnomes collarbone and neck. The blade steamed as he sliced into the gnome. The hapless paladin shuddered as Malachi released not one, but two fire spells directly into the body of the gnome. As the gnome fell, Malachi was already whirling the sword around and slamming it into the armor of the gnome who had just felled Rayne. The blow glanced off the armor, but left a deep gash in the metal plate. Malachi rebounded with the force of the blow and managed to get in a good slash none the less. The gnome responded to this attack by once again crying out to Glittergold and smiting Malachi with all the power he could summon. The ti-gar reeled from the blow but managed to remain standing. Just as he staggered backwards, Thyme finally caught up to the fray and slammed her palm upon the former general's back, releasing a surge of holy healing energy. Malachi's gaping wounds closed quickly and healed as though he had never been hit.

Iago turned as he saw the gnome directly in front of him get incinerated by Malachi's spellsword attack. The gnome who had just slain Rayne was still standing, but Iago made sure to remedy that. With a mighty roar, he swept his greataxe in a high arc over his head and brought it crashing down upon the gnome. The blade cleaved through the gnomes head and wedged itself in the ground between its feet. Two neatly cleaved halves of gnome parted and fell to the ground with a resounding splat. The raging ursa followed on half of the body to the ground and with a vicious snarl, ripped off the gnome's head with his teeth, brutalizing the corpse.

The one remaining gnome was behind the main line of Team Chaos now, and was running frantically toward Astra. Arathamus threw another lighting bolt into the gnome's backside, filling the air with sparks as the armor crackled with electric energy. Astra gazed in horror as the gnome rushed toward her, slashing the air in front of him blindly. She sent a volley of arrows toward him, but only a single arrow slipped through his defenses, causing him to stumble as the shaft lodged just below his knee. The gnome recovered his onward rush and cried out an invocation to Glittergold. He smote Astra with a holy smash, but her armor held against the force of the mighty blow. Although she was not cut, the shear brute force of the impact knocked her to the ground, limp and unconscious.

It is part of a paladin's creed and code that he cannot strike a defenseless opponent, so as for as the gnome was concerned, as soon as Astra was out of the fight, she was no longer a target. The gnome turned about, preparing to do his level best to defeat the rest of his enemies. However, before he could even take two steps back toward the mass of fighters, Malachi hurled a lightening bolt from his fingertips straight through the helm of the paladin. A small explosion ensued as sparks crisscrossed rapidly inside the gnomes metallic helmet. As the gnome dropped to the ground the announcer's voice rang out across the field. "Team Cornucopia has fallen! Team Chaos wins!"

The crowd cheered in enthusiasm as undertakers rushed in to cart off the remains of the fallen team and a small band of clerics made their way into the arena. Within minutes Iago was once again without a scratch and Astra was conscious once more with nothing to show but a slight headache. Several clerics huddled around the fallen swashbuckler and muttered rapidly. When the rest of the party attempted to crowd in to see what was going on they were quickly shooed away. After some tense minutes wait, the clerics shuffled back and revealed a very angry but alive Rayne.

"Damn, that was a pain." the swashbuckler cursed as she limped out of the arena.

The party regrouped that night at the finest inn in the city, each taking their own separate rooms. Iago asked Rayne if she wanted to split the bill on some more hookers to kill, but she declined. "Iago, that sounds fun and all, but I'm kinda tired from that dying business earlier today." The ursa eventually decided that perhaps he could wait a while as well. Most of the party decided to take to bed early that night, leaving Arathamus alone in the inn common room nursing a hearty mug of mead. Thoughts of the days fight ran through his head. He spent hours replaying every second and wondering how it could have gone better. The showman part of Arathamus also began to think. Next time, he vowed, he would find a way to make the show more entertaining for the crowd, and safer for his team-mates. After all, they may still be useful for him.


	11. Chapter 11

That morning as the party gathered themselves in the common room before the day's tournament match, Zieckel approached them with a fierce gleam in his eyes.

"I want in." he said.

"Why the sudden change of heart pal?" Rayne asked bitingly.

"No one told me there would be gnomes in this tournament. If there's more, I want to get to kill some!"

Arathamus laughed at this reasoning. "Sure, your help would be useful." The rest of the party agreed.

After informing the tournament officials of the new entrant, the team once again went into the waiting room to pass the time until their match. The tournament officials had gone to great extremes to keep each team from knowing anything about their competition prior to the fights. This helped to level the playing field and keep things more fair, but it nonetheless annoyed Arathamus to no end. He and Zieckel agreed aloud, "A fair fight means you weren't prepared." Shortly the group found themselves once again heading down the hall to the arena floor. Arathamus struck up a lively tune on his lute in an attempt to bolster his teammates' courage as they made their way through the dim corridor. Once again the group found themselves stepping out into the massive arena; the cheers of audience surrounding them. Once more they watched the heavy iron gate opposite them slowly being raised as their day's challengers approached. Long shadows stretched out across the arena floor as the enemy party approached. Ten massive ogres saddled through the doors, two at a time. They were decked out in dented and bloodstained armor, and were wielding huge spiked clubs. As the crowd cheered wildly, the ogres waved their clubs and danced around, egging the audience on.

Arathamus continued to play a rousing song on his lute, adding in more variations and countermelodies, resplendent with complex counterpoint. The notes flew from his instrument and dazzled the audience, stirred his allies to new heights, and thoroughly annoyed the ogres. "Hey, everyone's a critic." He muttered as the ogres booed and hissed at him.

As the party gathered around, Thyme uttered a brief prayer to Hextor for protection and aid. The entire party felt the warm protection fall over them, despite their differing religious affiliations. Zieckel decided to activate his ring and prepare to fully employ the element of surprise in the coming fight, shifting out to flank the enemy ogres.

Iago roared with bestial vigor as he pulled the massive battleaxe from his back. With a wicked gleam in his eyes, he licked the full length of the edge of the blade and shambled forward two massive paces. The air reverberated with his low pitch growl as he eyed the massive ogres as so many steaks.

The arena announcer signaled for the bout to begin, and before his amplified voice finished reverberating across the stands, the ogres began charging forward as a group. They charged forward, and straight into a fireball emanating from Malachi. Suddenly a good quarter of the arena was engulfed in a monstrous envelope of flames. The air was sundered by the combined roar of the flames and the crowd, mixed with screams of agony from the ogres. When the smoke finally cleared, all the scull crushers were still standing, but looked very charred, and exquisitely angry.

While the ogres were still recovering from the blast, Zieckel wasted no time and scampered unseen to behind of one of the ogres on a far side and slammed his arm sword straight at his back. The blade clanked harmlessly off the ogres armor but the ping of the action went un-noticed in the wake of explosion, and Zieckel remained unseen.

Two of the ogres slipped ahead of their pack and split up. One barreled into Iago and slammed a heavy mace right into Iago, drawing several thin lines of blood from where the spikes penetrated the ursa's armor. The other ogre slammed into Rayne, giving the swashbuckler several bruises and a few superfluous cuts from his weapon. Seeing his allies thusly injured, Arathamus quickly raised his hands from his lute and muttered a quick phrase while waving his hands. As the bard slapped his palms together, the cluster of ogres still at a range staggered and clutched their head, trembling as if collective anvils had dropped on them.

As the ogres recovered from the mass whelm, one tore away from his comrades and swung wildly at the nearest target, which happened to be Malachi. The ti-gar deftly dodged the attack and prepared to retaliate. As this all happened, Thyme raised her arms to the sky, and called down a blessing from her god to aid the party.

Yet another ogre tore away from his remaining allies in back, and barreled toward the archer. Astra saw the ogre coming and stepped aside dancingly, but she failed to react quickly enough. A thin line of blood across her shoulder denoted the spot where a spike had torn past her light armor and struck. As Astra stepped back and away from the wild eyed ogre, she sent a flurry of arrows at him in incredibly rapid succession. Moments later, a dead ogre resembling a pincushion lay before her.

(meanwhile) Iago looked before him. The enemy was on his left. The enemy was on his right. The enemy was in front of him. The enemy was right where he wanted them. Flying into a frothing rage, Iago swung out with his great axe at the ogre on his left. An entire arm went flying. He swung a second time and severed the ogres head. Carrying the momentum of the attack, he swung out toward the ogre directly in front of him. Yet another ogre head went flying, sailing through the air before the first head clanked to the ground. Iago carried the swing of the axe all the way to the ogre on his right, stepping into the blow. The axe embedded itself in the ogre's armor, but failed to break through. As the ogre twisted away, Iago released the handle of the axe and swung out with his massive paw. Razor sharp claws sliced in between the joints of the ogre's helm and yet one more head went flying. As Iago straightened up, the three ogre bodies collapsed to the ground as one, so fast had been the ursa's attack.

Once more an ogre ran forward and swung at Iago as he ursa dislodged his axe from the fallen one. Iago swung and both blows struck simultaneously. A bright clang rang out as the blows connected. Both weapons connected with sturdy plate armor and did little damage beyond bruises and possible cracked ribs. The metal shrieked in protest as the blade and spikes ripped away and the opponents turned to face one another.

The four remaining ogres rushed forward, but as they did so, the audience let out a massive gasp. The one ogre who was lagging behind the rest of the pack suddenly pitched forward as his spine was ripped in two by an unseen blade. Flesh and blood and grey matter spewed in all directions from his ruptured back and created a brief outline of a hidden kobold. Zieckel had snuck up and ambushed the ogre as he charged forward with a lethal uppercut from his wrist blade. The warrior was dead before he hit the ground with a satisfying splat.

As the first ogre in the remaining pack of three approached the party, Rayne tumbled into a forward roll, dodging between the warrior's legs. She glided up into a perfect thrusting stance and slammed her cutlass straight through the ogre's weaker back armor and into his left kidney. The ogre collapsed to the ground, a wordless scream of agony etched on his lifeless face. As a group of ogres clustered around Malachi, he roared and stomped his foot. Flames shot up forty feet into the air and for several feet on each side. Roars of agony filled the arena and reverberated off of the stone walls. As the smoke cleared, three ogres lay dead on the ground, little more than charred piles of seared flesh. Malachi stood in the middle of the blast crater, completely unharmed. Arathamus, Iago, and Thyme, were not very pleased. They had been a bit close to the blast and now their faces and clothes were blackened to the point that they could have passed as chimney sweeps.

Now one lone ogre stood on the arena floor, facing the full forces of Arathamus' party. Zieckel clanged his dagger against his armor in a futile attempt to replicate his last glorious kill, as Arathamus whipped out his wand of lightning and leveled it at the ogre. A blazingly bright bolt of pure electrical energy surged from the wand and straight into the ogre's defenseless crotch. Blood spurted from the seams of the armor as vessels ruptured in the heat of the blast. The ogre collapsed to the ground in agony. He lay curled up in a ball and twitched as though he were being shaken by a dog. Thyme called down a flame strike that charred his body and mercifully put him out of his misery. The battle was over; Team Chaos was victorious once again. The party left the arena in jubilation and to the screams of raving fans. This had been a good day, Arathamus thought. The bard puzzled in his head, "What shall I do tonight?" The answer came to him in a flash as he passed a very upscale tavern on his way back to his current lodging. It was time to party, perform, and maybe have a little fun. He remembered gleefully his exploits during his previous sojourn in Terdan. Countless wenches had fallen to his charms, and not a few of them had woken up with significantly less wealth the next day. But all those conquests had been in small towns and villages, as he had avoided the major cities previously. Now, however, it was time to try to hit it big time. Arathamus chuckled softly all the way to the inn, drawing a few looks of annoyance from his team mates along the way. He shrugged it off however, he had plans, and his mind was already occupied formulating the best song order to properly enrapture his audience that night.

A/N: Chapter 12 coming soon, really, I promise. Just suffered from a nasty bout of writer's block recently. I hope you all are enjoying this story. I do have it all mapped out now. There will be 16 chapters total, with an ending that is sure to shock most readers. Please, I beg of you, my most honorable readers, review by clicking that little button just under this note. It makes me happy. And when I'm happy, I write more stuff! Also, please go and read "I want you to dig me a hole" as well as my latest saga, "The Gnome Ranger". They are both companion pieces. I also intend on doing a companion piece with brief character bios and stat sheets for Arathamus' team soon. I will post it either as a stand alone story, or as an appendix to this one. Thank you for reading my story, now REVIEW IT!


	12. Chapter 12

Arathamus returned to his lodging where he spent a few minutes tidying up after the evening's combat. He polished his fine lute until it shined, and donned a most dazzling bardic tunic. He had selected a tavern that appeared to cater to the more affluent clientele, and looked forward to a most productive night. Sashaying up to the bartender, he struck up an idle conversation with him. Within minutes, the bartender was thoroughly charmed, and insisted that Arathamus perform there that very night. Emitting a few token protests, Arathamus finally graciously accepted the offer.

Arathamus strode upon the stage as though it were built exclusively for him. Sitting down upon a pine stool, he propped one foot upon a rung and began to idly strum his lute. As he seemed to tune his instrument and warm up, a hush fell over the normally rowdy bar. Arathamus looked up absently, and gave a gleaming smile to the audience. The sound of several swoons greeted him from the back of the audience. "_Heh, and I haven't even begun playing yet!"_ the bard thought devilishly to himself.

Arathamus began to pluck a simple melody out upon his lute. It was a common ditty that was most certainly known to all present that night. But oh, what he began to do with that ditty can only be described as wondrous. First he began to construct a bass style accompaniment to the melody, then he wove a high alto harmony close to the framework of the original melodic line. The melody began to vary slightly as he inserted trills, runs, and subtle variations, always returning to the true line though. As the crowd watched eagerly on, he introduced yet another melody. This tune was somewhat simpler, but seemed magnificent in its splendid simplicity. Once again Arathamus wove harmonies into the tune, but this was not his final musical twist. Springing to his feet, Arathamus leaned forward into his lute, as though it were consuming him, and he it. His fingers flew over the taut strings like leaves dancing in the wind. Notes issued forth in a torrent from his lute as he played both melodies simultaneously in a stunning contrapuntal display of the art of the fugue. Arathamus' eyes gleamed and shone as though they were on fire, as the sweat poured from his face. The cascade of notes finally ceased, and silence once again reigned supreme in the tavern. After a few moments of quite awe, coins and cheers flew at the bard in gratitude for his performance. Arathamus collected his pay, but he was not done.

He had been watching the crowd during his performance, and had selected a target for his true nights fundraising activities. Wearing a smile that would have won over a blind man, he approached a very voluptuous lady seated at a corner table. She was accompanied by two muscled men dressed in black garb and very blatantly displaying short swords in loose scabbards. Her wealth was apparent to anyone who so much as glanced at her garb, or at her heavyset frame.

Arathamus introduced himself to the lady, deliberately ignoring the glares from her bodyguards. Within moments, he was seated next to her, having casually shoved aside the nearest bodyguard. After a few minutes of idle conversation, he began to strum his lute softly. In a hushed voice, he serenaded the buxom lady, quoting an elven love song in a gentle, seductive voice. The woman leaned forward, thoroughly enthralled. Arathamus strove to appear to stare into her eyes, although in reality he was leering lustily at the bulging coin purse she had attempted to hide in a very well cushioned, but obvious hiding place. Arathamus concluded his song and made as if to put away his lute for the night. He rose and spoke, "I must be going now; the night is getting late." The noblewoman would have nothing of the such happen, however, and began to fervently insist he stay and have a few more drinks, or at least bestow another glorious song upon her. Arathamus chuckled softly under his breath. All was going exactly according to plan. He replied slyly to the woman, "I truly must be leaving this tavern, however that does not necessarily preclude a more _private_ performance." No sooner had the words left his mouth than he felt his hand grabbed by a vice-like grip. The aristocrat's meaty hand was clamped to his own, and proceeded to mightily haul him out of the bar and into the street. The woman's bodyguards followed hurriedly as they tossed a small bag of coins to the bartender on their way out. Arathamus found himself being literally dragged through the streets for several minutes until he stood before a magnificent mansion. The woman ushered herself and her dazed bard companion into the house, and briskly dismissed her attendants. The butler at the door looked at her in askance and began to voice an objection, but a sharp glare from her hawk-like eyes silenced him instantly.

"Now, my dear bard, you were saying about that private performance?" she queried as she draped herself over a couch. "Indeed so, maam, but if you would allow me to be so forward, I was thinking perhaps a more, leisurely, location: somewhere where we could spend some time with a bit more maneuvering space, a bedroom perhaps?" The woman looked up, some surprise showing in her face. She puzzled for a moment, before glancing one again at the charming bard standing before her. "Why not!" she exclaimed.

Some time later Arathamus was standing over a luxurious bed, the woman laying facedown before him, her broad back exposed. A pan of warm oil sat upon a bedside table, and Arathamus was just getting to his favorite part of his moneymaking massage. Remembering a rare and difficult technique he had learned from Amon, he attempted to channel his energy into his hands and directly into the massive body lying before him. The female fairly squealed and writhed in pleasure; not exactly the reaction Arathamus was intending. Breathing deeply, the bard tried once again, eliciting once more, a similar result. The woman was now breathing heavily, and Arathamus began to fear that if he did not act soon, there would not be enough air left for him! Arathamus tried once more, this time somewhat higher and closer to the neck, but was only rewarded once more with the view of her shuddering in ecstasy. The tremors were a sight he hoped never to have to see again, as it brought to mind the times he used to drop pebbles into a bucket and watch the ripples spread and bounce off of the walls. Never before had he seen such an example in human flesh. Finally, fed up with his pretense, he channeled all his arcane energy into his fist and bonked the woman on the back of her head. Finally, she was out cold. Arathamus quickly tore through the room, expertly extracting her purse from her cast off clothing and searching for any valuables of any type. The room yielded some significant items of value, and in moments the aristocrat's entire jewelry collection had been relocated to the bard's bag of holding. With a final glance, Arathamus decided that his job here was done, and he strode toward the door intending to walk out as though nothing other than the obviously suspected stuff had happened. He had descended about halfway down the stairway when he heard the door open and the butler exclaim. "Welcome home Your Honor, I trust all was well at the circuit court?"

"Indeed so Cedric, my training as a magus ensures that all tell the truth before my bench, and so I never have any truly difficult cases. Now, where is my Margaret? I presume she's over at the Golden Goose Tavern once more, drooling over those phony bards they have there?" Arathamus pressed himself against the wall in terror. The woman had never told him that she was married, not that it would have changed his mind. But if he had known her husband was a wizard judge, perhaps he would have been somewhat more cautious. The conversation beneath him continued as he steadied himself and activated his ring of invisibility. This seemed to be a situation where perhaps stealth was in order.

"Actually master, she is home already abed."

"Really now? But the bars are still open! This is most unlike her. Wait, tell me Cedric, and don't even bother lying, my zone of truth with uncover any such deception, did she come home alone?"

"No sir, of course not, her bodyguards were with her."

"Is that _all_ who accompanied her?

"No sir."

"Who else was there?"

"A man, sir."

"What kind of a man?" The judge glared, his eyes beginning to turn white as he gazed over toward the couch, where several pillows lay disturbed.

"The kind of a man who caries a lute across his back and wears very shiny and flashy clothing, sir."

"Oh, ye gods, what crime have I committed to be so cursed with an unfaithful wife with a penchant for bards!? Tell me great Boccob, do I not use your power to make society better? Why have you placed this millstone around my neck?"

The butler spoke up gently as he placed a comforting hand upon the mage's shoulder. "She is the governor's daughter, you know. Your marriage to her has greatly increased your power as a judge, allowing you to spread the word of your god and enforce justice in our territory. Perhaps this is merely the price you pay for such rewards. It is said that neutral gods do require balance." The judge nodded somberly, as he wiped away a tear of frustration from his eye.

As the exchange of words continued between the two men, Arathamus tried to stealthily sneak down the stairwell, toward the door still blocked by the butler and his master. White eyes swept upwards and glared directly at him. Arathamus stood dead still, praying that the gaze was merely directed at some sound he had made and not at himself directly. After a few seconds had past, however, this proved not to be the case.

"Well, well stranger! Aren't you going to introduce yourself? You are, after all, a guest in my house!" the judge called out to Arathamus.

The bard thought quickly and desperately. Perhaps he could bluff his way out of this mess. He deactivated his ring and stood before the judge, keeping a safe distance between him. "Greetings sir, I am Amadeus, licensed massage practitioner and music therapist. I was just on my way out."

"Oh, is that so? What sort of professional goes around hiding with powerful arcane magic?" So saying, the wizard waved his hand and spoke up with a voice of command. "Now tell me the truth! Who are you and what are you doing here in my house!"

"As I said, good sir, I am Ama… ama… Arathamus. Licenced… um, music thera… um… Bard extraordinaire. I was just giving your wife a massage. I did not know she was married."

"I see now", said the judge, as he leveled his stony gaze upon Arathamus. "Tell me, is that all you were doing?"

Arathamus felt compelled to tell the truth, a process most distasteful to him. However, he strove to combat the effects and used his beguiler training to attempt to twist the truth. Perhaps he was not done for yet.

"I did not have sexual relations with that woman." He said with a completely straight face.

The judge smiled; apparently he was used to bluffers like this. "Good for you bard, if you survive tonight, you may make a fine politician, but you did not answer my question. Now what did you do in that room you just came from?"

"Um, I gave her a massage until she was unconscious." Arathamus mumbled.

"Do tell, and I suppose this was a natural occurrence?" the judge continued.

"For me yes; for her it took a bit of bludgeoning. Damn it! I can't believe I said that out loud!"

"Now we are getting somewhere. Is there anything else you would like to tell me?"

"Absolutely not! I didn't want to tell you even half as much as I already have!"

"Oh, hu hu hu, I suppose not. But now, is there perhaps something else you _should_ tell me if you were to be a law abiding citizen?"

"Yes your honor, two things. The first thing is that I took quite a bit of money and jewelry from her and the bedroom. The second thing is that I'm out of here! GOODBYE!" So saying, Arathamus ran up the stairwell and rounded the corner to the bedroom from whence he came. Five orbs of glowing magical energy chased him and began to impact him in the back, each feeling as though it were a hammer slamming into his spine. The fifth and final magic missile slammed into his back as he jumped through the window in the bedroom. Glass flew in all directions as Arathamus tumbled out the window, and flames burst forth as though emanating from nowhere as the house alarm system flashed with an illusion of a flame strike through the window. The bard tumbled to the ground and took off running, making a most expeditious retreat. The judge glared out the window, but could not see the long departed thief, and his guards where no more successful in their endeavors.

Roughly half an hour later, Arathamus finally dragged himself into the inn where he and his compatriots had secured lodging for the duration of the tournament. Malachi glanced at him and laughed. "Had some fun did we, my lad?" The ti-gar fairly shook with glee as he saw the burns on the bard's back and the multiple of scrapes and bruises on his body. "Ah, fuck off and die." Arathamus replied coldly.

"Aw, you poor stupid dumb thing," Thyme grumbled as she walked over and deftly healed Arathamus' wounds. "I have a feeling you deserved every bit of these and more didn't you?"

"Oh, indeed I did." Arathamus chuckled softly.

The orc finished healing Arathamus and promptly smacked him upside the head with a closed fist before walking away in a huff.

"I don't think I deserved that." Arathamus muttered almost incoherently as he staggered off to his room. "Say, where's Rayne, she's usually still down at the bar scaring the patrons and sharpening her knife about this time. I swear that girl doesn't sleep!"

"Oh, she'll be back in the morning, I'm sure." Malachi replied. She took off with some elven bard guy about a couple hours ago. She went into your room first, but she didn't stay long."

"Oh, that's interesting." Arathamus went into his room and began to sort his loot out into his backpack and bags, distributing things in whatever manner he felt inclined to at the time. As he rummaged through his things, he realized that something was missing. After several minutes and researching, he poked his head out of the doorway and back into the hall where Malachi was resting. "Has anyone seen my silk rope? I swear I had like fifty feet of the stuff in here this morning!"

"Nope, haven't seen it." Malachi called back.

"Damn, I swear, with all my other stuff, I can't believe that's the only thing that's missing." Arathamus fumed as he curled up to go to sleep on his bed. Despite his chaotic nature, he always liked to take good care of his traveling gear, and it disturbed him whenever he misplaced anything, even his spare tinder.

Iago wandered into the inn several hours later, when only Thyme remained awake and at the common area. The ursa was covered in blood and reeked of the smell of fear. Thyme called out to him, "Hey big ugly, any of that blood yours?"

Iago snorted back, "Not hardly, just about another dozen hookers is all."

Thyme stood up, anger flashing in her eyes as she raised her heavy flail. "You mean to tell me you killed another dozen innocent, hardworking people tonight?"

"No, of course not miss cleric. It was more like fifteen, but I don't think any of their blood is on me."

"Give me one good reason I shouldn't flail you into an inch of your life? You are a disgrace and the perfect example of why gallows were invented!"

"I just killed fifteen women with my bare hands." the ursa growled. "That should be about fifteen reasons right there."

"You are a sick, twisted, sadistic, murderous, villainous beast!" Thyme roared as she advanced forward two paces; readying her heavy flail.

"Fear me, for I am IAGO, devourer of women! Despoiler of virgins! Ravager of corpses! A monster among my own race!" Iago bellowed as he reared himself up to his full height and caused his fur to stand on end. His apparent size doubled and sparks few as his hair brushed against the tavern ceiling. Thyme took one glance at him and back away slowly.

"Oh well, then again, who hasn't murdered a few hookers every now and then, right?" Thyme chuckled nervously as she searched for a opportune exit.

"Damn straight." Iago muttered as he slouched down once more and ambled into his rented room, slamming the door behind him.

A/N:

Once again, another chapter is complete. Please read and review. I can't write better if I don't get feedback!

In answer to a few questions I have received.

Everything portrayed in this story is possible in DnD 3.5 edition. Many spells or actions are actually either strongly hinted at or even specifically named in the story. (the special attack Arathamus tried to do on the aristocrat was called "Overwhelm" an attack that immediately knocks the victim unconscious. The damn DM kept rolling ridiculous will saves though. Oh well, it made for an interesting story.

Everything that happens after the party assembles (around chapter 4 or 5) is actual game events from my campaign. I control the actions of Arathamus, but the other characters are all controlled by either another player, or the Evil Dungeon Master. I give credit to those I just mentioned in my user profile, and you can read more about them there.

As I am not the GM of this campaign, I have little control over the terrain, but try to imagine the tournament as the great coliseum in Rome. Obstacles would make fights take longer and obscure some action to the spectators. The audience is screaming for blood and quick and decisive action. While strategic maneuvering would be interesting for players and perhaps some readers, it does not truly match the general concept of a martial tournament. I can however, guarantee that there will be a great deal more strategy in the coming chapters, especially chapter fourteen and sixteen.

Additional Author's notes.

To get a better idea of what Arathamus is doing in the tavern in the first scene, go listen to the 4th movement of Beethoven's 9th symphony. Now, if you can imagine that entire movement being played on a masterwork lute, you have his first performance.


	13. Chapter 13

Arathamus awoke late in the morning, his head aching and his vision still somewhat blurred from the night before. As he moved, several shots of pain ran through his back where the magic missiles had slammed into him the night before. Despite having been fully healed by Thyme before retiring, the pain served as a reminder to be somewhat more cautious in the future.

As he staggered out into the hall he heard the voices of his companions laughing down in the dining hall. Holding his head with one hand and fumbling for the wall with the other, he slowly made his way to join them and collapsed in a chair near the kobold. The bard groped around the table awkwardly until someone placed a flagon of mead in his hands. As he took a swig of the sweet brew, he finally managed to focus on the conversation at hand. Rayne was telling a story to the rest of the group, and everyone was laughing uproariously in response. Even the quite, near emotionless Astra was giggling softly behind her hand, as her face tinged slightly red. As Arathamus listened, he managed to piece together what had happened to his silk rope.

It seemed that while Rayne had been amusing herself twirling a dinner knife over her fingers while seated in a corner table of the bar, an elvin bard had approached her. He had recited several flowery poems to the swashbuckler, and made a poor attempt to seduce her. Rayne had seen through his poor skills, as the elf was but a youngling of perhaps a mere one hundred and twenty years, but she decided that perhaps a bit of fun may be in order. Faking a failed will save, she had excused herself briefly for a quick chance to "freshen up" a bit before accompanying the bard to his inn, on the other side of town. As she slipped away, she extracted a few special articles from her belongings, and deftly picked the lock on Arathamus' room door. She had seen him organizing his backpack before, and was able to find his length of rope in almost no time. Upon returning, she followed the elf back to his lodging. Once the elf began to make advances, she had produced the silk rope, and forthwith and with much haste succeeded in binding him to the bedpost in a most compromising position, sans clothing. It should be noted that the elf, although unfamiliar with such actions, gave little protest. Upon the completion of his restraint, Rayne had simply gathered up all his valuables and monetary wealth, and strode out the door, hanging a "do not disturb" sign on the handle and paying the innkeeper the bards rent for the next two weeks. Rayne finished her tale recounting her triumph by holding up a finely wrought, silver inlayed flute that had previously belonged to the bard.

Arathamus grumbled softly, "but that was my rope!" to which Rayne replied laughingly, "do you really want it back?" Upon careful thought, Arathamus sighed and resigned himself to the lost of the costly rope. It had been one of the articles he had filched from the elvin nobleman's vault when he had made his hasty departure anyway, so it wasn't as though he had paid for it.

The day continued on for several more hours, as the hours wore on and the next round of the tournament approached. Finally the party found themselves once more standing in the portcullis as the metal gate slowly rose before them. Arathamus wore his performer's garb over his mithril breastplate, the flashy ribbons and cloth making him stand out as though he were on fire. The crowd roared in favor as they watched the star saunter forth. As the party stepped into the harsh sunlight, the bring light caused their eyes to take several moments to adjust. Once the field was once again focused in their vision, they beheld a truly frightening sight. Across the coliseum stood a full squad of ten heavily armed and armored fire giants. They were standing in a loose battle formation of two rows, with the five in front wielding massive greataxes, and the ones behind them carried pouches with ragged boulders stuffed inside. The giants arms bulged and their tendons rippled as the five in back grasped the stones and prepared to throw them at our heroes.

Malachi roared in appreciation at the sight of what appeared to be a good challenge, and Iago bristled with eagerness as well. The females in the party seemed to react very cautiously and betrayed little sign of emotion. Thyme squared herself away and prepared for whatever may come her way as Astra grimly fitted an arrow to her bow and narrowed her eyes at the posturing giants. Rayne slipped out to the side and began to edge away from her companions to prepare to flank the massive brutes. Her eyes fairly shone with fire as she curled her hand around her cutlass's handle. Zieckel took one glance at the giants and slipped on his ring of invisibility, leaving behind a small, foul smelling puddle where he had stood. Wet footprints indicated that he was slipping forward none the less before they faded out of sight. Arathamus gazed at the giants, fairly trembling in awe at their massive strength. The greataxes alone would have been too heavy to even lift for him, and these giants were swinging them in circles in the air as though they were made of an illusion. The bard thought briefly about the danger before him, and then he noticed something very interesting about the giants. Though they were strong and fierce, there seemed to be only the dimmest trace of intelligence in their eyes. He would use this to his advantage.

As the announcer signaled the battle to begin, Arathamus began muttering rapidly and waved his hand back and forth, ending with his arms crossed and pointing in opposite directions. Immediately, the fire giants began swinging their great axes against each other, barreling into a massive brawl that left three of them dead and two others woozy before the rest of Arathamus' allies could even register what was going on. The remaining giants glared at the party, and hefted their axes as they prepared to charge. But before they could even take a step forward, Malachi hurled a fiery orb of magic at them, which exploded into a huge fireball. The giants were engulfed by the blast, but as the smoke cleared, they all stood. Their faces were blackened, and they were thoroughly charred, but they still stood. As one giant charged forward, he staggered forward and collapsed upon the ground. A dim outline of Zieckel shimmered in the evening sun as the kobold leapt in the air above the fallen giant. The entire back of the brute had been sliced from the base of the spine to the top, and gore filled the air in a fine mist of blood, spinal fluid, and shreds of flesh. Bloody footprints betrayed the kobold's location briefly as he shuffled away, but even the footprints quickly vanished. The rogue had struck unseen, and then faded away just as quickly.

Iago gazed upon the carnage before and practically drooled with delight. Roaring a challenge of his own, he rushed forward and barreled straight into a tight-knit group of the giants. Boulders peppered him on his charge as the giants hurled fiery hot stones at the charging ursa, but he shrugged off the attacks as though they were nothing more than pebbles being tossed at him. None the less, the now familiar smell of burning ursa fur indicated that the boulders had at least made somewhat of an impact. Swinging his axe in a vicious arc, Iago beheaded two fire giants with one stroke, and lodged the massive blade in the neck of a third. Now only three giants remained standing.

A frenzied melee erupted as both Thyme and Rayne charged the remaining giants. The swashbuckler tumbled underneath the legs of one, and the sunlight glinted briefly off of her cutlass blade. The confused fire giant started to turn around, and then howled in pain as realization suddenly hit him at the same time as two large, bloody orbs fell from between his legs and plopped noisily to the ground. Thyme busied herself with pummeling one giant to a pulp as he was momentarily dazed at the sight of his comrades all laying dead or dismembered. The remaining giant attempted to run back to the gate from which he had come, but fell victim to a hail of arrows turning his back into a pincushion. In mere moments, all the giants lay dead, burned to a crisp, killed by each other, brutally murdered, or mercifully coup de graced by Rayne while slowly bleeding out from the crotch. The dramatic battle, which the crowd had expected to take at least thirty minutes, had barely lasted for three. A hush fell over the crowd as the gore covered party dusted themselves off and waited to be announced the winner. After a few moments, the announcer did just that, and the spectators cheered uproariously. However, a sense of fear seemed to pervade the crowd as they perhaps wondered to themselves: "who are these people, and how are they so deadly?" However, the days festivities were not quite over, and two more matches soon distracted the spectators from their worries. Our heroes, however, retired to their inn, not even bothering to indulge in any pleasures of the flesh for this night. The match had been exciting, but also tiring. Darkness came and found all of them sound asleep, except of course for the perpetual insomniac Rayne. She was busily polishing her cutlass when the rest of the party turned in, and would already be eating breakfast at the bar when they arose. Arathamus wondered to himself,  
"did that woman ever sleep?"


	14. Chapter 14

The next day, our ignoble heroes once again ventured forth into the arena for to do glorious combat. The opponents this time were a team of seven gnolls: intelligent, dogfaced humanoids with a penchant for violence. "Where the fuck are all these teams coming from?" Rayne commented as she readied her cutlass for yet another busy day's bloodletting. "I'm not sure," replied Arathamus, "sometimes I wonder if there's not some sadistic mastermind in the sky above us with a book filled with monsters, alphabetized, and categorized by danger level; and he's gloating with vicious glee as he throws the entire book at us!"

The gnolls, vicious beasts, were divided among themselves with three axe wielders, and three gnolls sporting longbows. Their obvious leader was wearing an ornamental headdress with feathers and bones from strange beasts adorning it. A warcleric of the gnoll tribes was a fearsome sight to behold: heavy metal armor protecting her leathery hide and making a sickening shrieking sound at the rusty plates ground against each other.

Once the announcer left the stadium, a fierce raucous erupted, as both teams rushed each other. The fierce Iago led the way into the fray, bashing his great-axe into gnolls left and right, and receiving a bloody repayment as they returned in kind. Malachi, the great Ti-gar and former general of Carnassa, leapt into the fray and stood back to back with the mighty ursa, blood spraying around him in a mist as both he and his foes received liberal damage. As the two animalistic warriors engaged the barbarians, the rest of the team charged the archers. Rayne neatly sliced past the armor of one archer, and as the gnoll dropped his bow and pulled a short sword, a lightning bolt from Arathamus' dropped him to the ground. Rayne wasted no time to thank the benevolent bard, instead rushing off to tackle yet another foe. Thyme busied herself attempting to bestow healing magic upon the belabored pair of Malachi and Iago, and was unable to grant any aid in the physical confrontations surround her. As Astra peppered one of the two remaining gnolls with her arrows, Rayne dodged amongst the shafts and slashed furiously at the archer, doing little damage though, as her blade kept being turned aside by the well wrought chainmail. The free archer made the most of her opportunity, and managed to embed not a few arrows in Malachi and Iago both. The mighty warriors were being tested as never before as it was but Thyme's healing powers alone that kept both afoot. Already one gnoll warrior had fallen, but two yet remained and seemed determined to slaughter the mighty general and the formal gladiator. Suddenly, the rain of arrows stopped, as Zieckel once again performed his signature move of eviscerating his opponent from behind, unseen even at the moment, until blood and vicera covered his form and gave away his outline. He charged the cleric, and gave her a superficial cut as she pivoted aside. However, without warning, she fell to the ground, motionless.

A glazed expression came over the kobold's eyes, and he abruptly turned around, and hurled a fireball at the unsuspecting Arathamus. Flames engulfed the bard, and as the smoke settled, he looked visibly shaken. The entire party was taken aback by this turn of events. Zieckel was not supposed to be in possession of arcane abilities. Something truly wrong was afoot. As the kobold disappeared thanks to his magic ring, Malachi hesitated in shock and bewilderment. This was all the opening his gnoll opponent needed, and he swung his axe wildly into the distracted Ti-gar. The former general fell to the ground, lifeless as his vision faded into darkness. Iago responded to this murder with a roar that sent chills down the spines of the audience as he whirled around with his axe and neatly severed the heads of both the gnolls surrounding him. Now there was nothing left but corpses and the remaining party members in sight. However, the battle was far from over.

Fireballs began to rain down upon the party, as the possessed kobold was forced to turn upon his own team. Thyme called down a fireblast on the area where the last orb of fire had erupted, but there was nothing showing as a result. Astra gazed out in annoyance, as her eyes found no targets for her arrows. Rayne dashed out to the left, her blade out in front of her as she literally tried to feel out the kobold. Arathamus hurled out an arcane spell which he hoped would dispel the magic of the kobold, but nothing appeared. Seconds later, a beam of green energy burst out and seared into the bard, knocking him to the ground in agony. Coughing up blood, he stood up shakily as he gazed over to see Thyme already busying herself magically sealing gaping wound on Iago. Iago capered around, roaring and spewing curses to the emptiness. He postured and snarled, futilely attempting to intimidate the invisible kobold.

Cursing himself for not thinking of it earlier, Arathamus quickly chanted a cantrip Amon had taught him ages earlier, and with a careful articulation of his digits and a pinch of the correct reagent from his spell pouch, all that was hidden became revealed to him. With his newfound ability to see that which is normally invisible, he readied himself to cast yet another "dispel magic", this time aimed directed at the unsuspecting kobold. Just as he raised his hands to do so, he was rocked as yet another fireball engulfed the party. As his sight and strength faded, he suddenly felt a warm energy engulf him and revive him. Catching a knowing glance from Thyme, he then hurled his own spell at Zieckel. The dazed kobold collapsed to the ground and slowly staggered to his feet, just as the gnoll cleric jumped up with a start. The female's eyes swelled in horror as she realized her gambit had failed and now the collective wrath of all the remaining party members descended upon her. A flurry of arrows flew from the ranger's great-bow as she once more had a target worthy of attack. As shafts peppered the cleric, flames once more descended from the heavens, this time finding their mark. As Arathamus attempted to fish out his wand from his sleeve, Rayne charged in to punish the gnoll for giving them such a hard time. Iago however, beat the swashbuckler to the singed cleric, and brutalized her in ways which can not be put down in words. Seconds later, there was nothing left but the smell of death, burned flesh, and a bloody paste where once had stood the gnoll cleric. A hush fell over the audience, as such viciousness was seldom seen even in tournaments. The announcer declared the party as winners, and local clerics rushed in to revive Malachi and help tend to the wounded party members. The day was won, but the cost seemed high indeed, as the party had been forced to fight as never before.

That night, as the party headed to their separate rooms, Arathamus pulled the Ti-gar aside and had a hushed conversation with him. The rest of the party seemed oblivious to this as they went about their nightly rituals. As the two parted ways, snoring could be heard from all but one of the rooms, and a rasping sound of a cutlass against whetstone betrayed Rayne's presence in her room. Tomorrow, they had been told, was the semifinals. There was only four teams remaining, and they would face their penultimate match, assuming they won it.

A/N

What comes next for our evil heroes? Tune in next time as I wrap up the shocking conclusion to the tournament. Where do they go from here? And most of all, What were Arathamus and Malachi discussing late into the night? All will soon be answered! THE MUTE BARD


	15. Chapter 15

The sun hovered overhead, its hot rays slamming down upon Arathamus's face. The roar of the crowd filled his head with a dull, pulsating pounding. He was covered in blood, but unlike so many other previous times, this was his own. His stomach felt as if it were on fire. Actually, it sort of was, as his breastplate and his abdomen were a searing mess of charred flesh and twisted mithril. His hair, long and flowing, had been reduced to a matted fray of blood and cinders. No part of his body was without agonizing pain, worse than any he had ever experienced before. Arathamus looked out to his left, as he lay helpless on the ground. The sight that greeted his eyes was not a comforting one. Malachi, the groups most powerful caster, was dead on the ground with blood pooling around him not but a few paces away. Arathamus had seen Iago drop mere seconds before in a hail of arrows that left the massive beast-man looking like a ragged pincushion. The ear-splitting screams of agony that he recognized as originating from Thyme and Rayne sent his own soul into withering despair. "So this is how it ends." He thought to himself as he slowly blacked out and the world faded into nothingness.

Earlier that day:

With only two more rounds of tournament fights to go, the gang was very excited as they woke up and shared a communal breakfast in the tavern where they were lodged for the week. Arathamus say across from Malachi and they were very quiet, unusually so. Their silence went unnoticed however, amid the din of the tavern and the bawdy tales of Iago and Rayne as they took turns tying to one-up the other with tales of past debaucheries.

Their morning repast complete, the group spent the rest of the day leading up to their day's match in the tourney touring the immense bazaar. Clothes, trinkets, weapons, magic items, and food from all over the world cluttered a myriad of stalls and tables. By noon though, the party found themselves once again in the ready room of the tournament coliseum. Zieckel eyed the mighty Ursa Iago cannily, and then made a flying leap toward the barbarian's back. Tiny, sharp kobold claws helped him find traction as he climbed Iago's shoulders, but the Ursa was not still at this un-warranted assault. With a guttural growl, Iago twisted around, and slammed the rogue down to the stone floor with a rock-splitting thud, pinning the kobold to the floor with a massive paw around his neck.

"I just wanted to climb up for a better view of the fight!" screamed the rogue, his voice raspy from the sudden assault on his neck and lack of air.

"You do NOT climb ursas, puny creature," Iago growled back. "You touch me and you pay the price of the offense with your LIFE!" he continued, as his paw tightened and Zieckel's eyes began to bulge in his recessed sockets.

"Enough!" bellowed Malachi, as he ran alongside of the grappling allies. The Ti-Gar held in his hand a longbow with an arrow knocked and pulled taut, the arrowhead glowing fiercely with imbued potent arcane magic. "We save this violence for the arena, the other team, and the glory of the crowd, Iago. You would do well to remember who your allies are here."

The barbarian did not immediately release the kobold, but his grip did loosen a bit, as he muttered, "The little bastard started it".

"I don't care who started it, it ends now, or you end now, your choice." The former general snapped.

Iago still did not let go, and for a moment it seemed that he would snap the rogue's neck and attack Malachi, when Thyme spoke up. "Down Iago, bad ursa, very very bad ursa. You know better, release him."

Iago finally released his grasp on Zieckel and stormed off muttering once again, this time griping "I can't do nothing round here no more."

The rest of the group's preparation for the upcoming battle was uneventful.

As the team headed out into the arena once more, the crowd cheered wildly during their announcement. However, the roar of the crowd was such for the opposing team, that Arathamus could not hear the name the group had chosen for themselves. They seemed fairly normal, with a male human holding a bow, a halfling man in black oiled leather armor and a short sword, an elf of uncertain gender in capes and robes bearing a staff in his wizened hands, and a female half-elf in heavy armor and a shied bearing the emblem of Pelor, the god of the sun and righteousness. Arathamus grinned to himself, with such a small opposing group, this should be a quick and breezy slaughter.

After the crowd settled down, the announcer called out for the fight to begin, and the following moments would forever be a horrific blur to our poor unfortunate anti-hero.

A barrage of arrows seemed to materialize already halfway to team before Arathamus could even react. An arrow caught him in the shoulder as he watched several shafts pierce through the thick armored plate of Thyme. The mingling of a ursine roar and high-pitched screaming let him know that at least two more of his party had also not escaped the hailstorm of arrows unscathed. He barely noticed the half-elf cleric muttering hastily to herself as his attention was drawn to the elven wizard leaping up into the air and flying at least a hundred feet straight up, as his arms arched in the sky and pierced downward, conjuring a meteor storm directly on top of the scattered party. Massive flaming rocks crashed into the ground all amongst the hapless party, each meteor erupting into a sweltering fireball of searing torment.

"AYE YI YI YI YI YI YIIII!" A kobold scream of unspeakable anguish told Arathamus that Zieckel was sorely injured, and as recently damaged, his ring-granted invisibility would have vanished. The sound of screams, groans, and curses filled the steaming air as Arathamus tried to get to his feet and recover from nearly having his face melted off. His clothes were smoking and blacked, his hair reduced to ash, face as dark as a chimney sweep, and his left leg twisted at an obscene angle, Arathamus knew he did not cut the figure of a triumphant victor at this moment. As his eyes struggled to regain focus through the pain, he noticed with faint horror that the halfling had vanished. Frantically looking around, wondering where would be best to hurl a frantic invisibility purge, he realized only too late where the rogue was. The sneak had used the elf's attack to distract attention to him as he activated his own ring of invisibility. Although this ring apparently was not of the epic worksmanship of the ones that anathemas and Zieckel possessed, it still served completely well for his purpose. Ignoring the dangers of the meteor induced fireballs, he uncannily dodged all the flames and wove his way to behind Malachi. Arathamus surmised all this in an instant as he saw the halfling materialize behind the Ti-Gar with his arm extended upwards, grasping the hilt of his short sword as his other hand rested on the pommel in a pushing position. The blade, coated in red streaks of steaming blood, poked out of Malachi's chest. The former general of an army looked down at the protruding blade with a mixture of shock and pain, his mouth open in a wordless, silent scream. He fell to the ground almost in slow motion, the thud of his body sending small whirls of dust into the air around him. The Halfling merely slid his bloody blade out of the dead Ti-Gar, and grinned before deftly twisting his ring and vanishing again. Arathamus' mind raced, taking in the scene around him. Far to his left lay Astra, her body a pincushion reminiscent of the corpses she usually left behind. Iago, the mighty ursa who never let a tough fight so much as slow him down was now heaving heavy, labored breaths as he leaned on his greataxe and growled, tensing for a charge right as a flight of arrows slammed into his chest, dropping him like a sack of wet flour. Rayne was now bald and blacked like a charred fish left too long on a grill, but still standing, as she leveled her scimitar once again and eyed her opponents, trying to decide who to attack first. Arathamus could not make out Thyme's mood, as her helmet was dented severely onto her head, obscuring her face. Judging from the scorch marks on the armor and the dent in her helmet, the bard surmised that the cleric had taken a meteor directly to the head. It was a testament to her strength and constitution that she was still standing, albeit wobbly, and a testament to her using intelligence as a dump stat the fact that she didn't seem that impaired by the hit. A scurrying sound slightly to the bard's left and in front of him let him know that despite his grievous wounds, Zieckel was still up and game for more brutality, hopefully this time he would be the inflictor instead of the inflicted.

"You know," Arathamus thought to himself, "this just might work, we might still stand a chance at this, if we can work together, work quickly, and if that flying mage doesn't happen to have another one of those… oh fuck, really? SEROUSLY? OH MY FUCKING OLIDIMARA WHAT HAVE I DONE TO PISS YOU OFF THIS MUCH!"

As the meteor swarm impacted around him, Arathamus was not sure what hurt worse, the searing pain of having his flesh burned to the bone, or the shards of rocks slicing through his organs. Maybe it was the dying that hurt the worse. Yeah, dying really sucked.

The blackness seemed to stretch on forever in all directions. The silence made every moment seem an eternity. No tales of hellish torment or divine punishment could compare to the vast… nothingness that greeted Arathamus.

Well readers!

It's been two years since my last update, I hope it was worth it. This story got to be really difficult to come back to at times. Remember, the story is a retelling of an actual game with actual people I played with. Things change a lot over time, but this story is still true to the original. Only one or two more chapters remains to be written. Tune in soon for the stunning conclusion. That's right, it's not over yet!


End file.
